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WINE OF FURY 


SOME BORZOI BOOKS 
SPRING 1924 

THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE 
J. Anker Larsen 

AN ISLAND CHRONICLE 
William Cummings 

WOMEN AND WIVES 
Harvey Fergusson 

THE PITIFUL WIFE 
Storm Jameson 

WINE OF FURY 
Leigh Rogers 

TONY 

Stephen Hudson 

IMPERTURBE 
Elliot H. Paul 

SANDOVAL 
Thomas Beer 



WINE OF 
FURY 


LEIGH ROGERS 


1924 

NEW YORK 
ALFRED A. KNOPF 



















COPYRIGHT, 1924, 



Published, May, 1924 


Set up, electrotyped and printed by 
The Vail-Ballou Press, Inc., Binghamton, N. Y. 
Paper supplied by W. F. Etherington £ Co., New Yort. 
Bound by H. Wolff Estate, New York. 


MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES 
OF AMERICA 


MAY 31'24 




©C1A793443 

4*0 •» 


t/ 


TO 

MY FATHER 








“Take the wine cup of this fury at my hand, 
and cause all the nations, to whom I send thee, 
to drink it. 

“And they shall drink, and he moved, and 
be mad, because of the sword that I will send 
among them 


Jeremiah, xxv. 15 , 16 . 








CONTENTS 


PART I 


THE AWAKENING 3 

PART II 

THE WINE 133 

PART III 


FURY 


247 





PART I 


THE AWAKENING 













































I 


** 1 V 7"E shall see whether it is I who am being followed 
or this Radkin.” 

From his place in the office hay-window, which 
over-hung the sidewalk, David Rand contemplated the scene 
before him. The two months Petrograd summer had, in 1916, 
miraculously become three, and it seemed as though the entire 
city awaited with subdued apprehension the bitterness of the 
impending winter. 

Leaning against the quay wall and interested in two peasants 
throwing firewood from a huge barge stood a young man in 
the uniform of a student—cap with patent-leather visor, black 
belted tunic and long black trousers. He had been watching 
the peasants, David had noticed, when Radkin entered the 
office. He continued to watch them now that Radkin had 
left, although there had been little change in the rhythm of 
their movements as the white birch sticks arched lazily on 
to the quay. 

Beyond them and across the river the sun, moving in its 
flattening arc on the horizon and a moody red through the 
inevitable haze, made the last sullen struggle of its descend- 
ancy. It painted in furious colours the drifting clouds which 
baffled its efforts; and only once in a while, when by chance 
a break came, did it flash its radiance from the spot of blue, 
tinge plastered walls with reddish gold and leap like flame 
from gilded cross to spangled dome on the churches across 
the river. Soon the low clouds would close the gaps and 
the splendour would be only a memory cherished through 
lonely months of shadow. 

To David the frustration of its efforts seemed as con¬ 
tinuous and despairing as that of his own in this strange land. 

3 


4 


WINE OF FURY 

The outer door creaked below and Radkin stepped out to 
the walk. Even from the distance his triangular white face, 
ending in a black stubble beard, contrasted with his black 
coat, and David noted again the deliberate care with which 
he closed the door and set off down the quay—as though 
these actions were the result of long and careful planning. 
He walked for a block, unnoticed by the student, who re¬ 
mained absorbed in the activity of the peasants. Soon, how¬ 
ever, the watcher sidled away from the wall, looking quickly 
about as he did so, and likewise walked down the quay. At 
the second side-street the unsuspecting Radkin turned and 
disappeared. The stranger disappeared also. 

“So-o-o-o,” mused David, “my assistant is followed by the 
police.” 

He considered this. Perhaps it was the routine of the 
police to trail all new arrivals in the city. That he had 
at least been under surveillance for the first part of his stay 
in Petrograd he was certain, and even now he occasionally 
had a vague, hunted feeling, as though his followers were 
not far distant. “I’d appreciate knowing whatever they learn 
about him ... or from him,” he continued to himself, think¬ 
ing of Radkin. 

Radkin had just arrived from the United States and 
presented his letter of introduction from the New York office. 
Even before his statement that he was American by natural¬ 
isation, having left Russia when a young boy, David had not 
felt this to be the arrival of a fellow-countryman. There was 
another feeling, which he could not fathom—an impression 
of hardness of intellect, as though an implacable purpose 
had driven enthusiasm and sympathy from the man’s character. 
When he talked it was in tense, vibrant sentences, which 
seemed to be forced from him by the pressure of thoughts 
behind. 

David had looked carefully at the sheer white expanse of 
vein-laced forehead, noting its striking contrast with the 
bristly black hair shooting up from it with animal vigour. 
He had tried to measure the intellectual power behind it. 


THE AWAKENING 5 

“Yes,” he thought, “I’d like to know what he thinks when 
he looks at one so steadily and says nothing.” 

That he did not know added its small bit to his annoyance 
at the unknowables in this strange country. 

He looked again at the letter in his hand. Certain phrases 
were conspicuous: 

“The bearer of this letter is Mr. Peter Radkin, concerning whom 
we have already exchanged correspondence . . . unless we are greatly 
mistaken, Mr. Radkin will be of no little help to you both in the or¬ 
ganisation of your branch and its operation. 

“This brings up a topic which you probably wish we would not 
touch upon again. . . . Frankly, while we appreciate the difficulties 
under which you are working, we are disappointed that our Petrograd 
Branch is not yet open for business ... we had expected that, with 
the valuable legal guidance you have retained and the assistance of 
Mr. Danischevsky, whose influence we had thought to be great—with 
all this we had expected to be in operation some time ago. . . . 

“ . . . because we have the utmost confidence in your ability. You 
are young . . . your ideals, your sound drilling and experience in our 
methods, your initiative, enthusiasm and unshakable faith in American 
systems—these qualifications are certain, when rightly applied, to bring 
results which will be highly satisfactory both to you and to our great 
institution. . . .” 

The effect was of irritation. More real good would have 
been accomplished had the writer let it go as a complaint and 
avoided the platitude at the close. But what to do? The legal 
guidance in which he had placed so much reliance—and they 
in turn—could do nothing for him beyond the forms and 
formalities of its training. It had no influence, and influence 
at Court and in the Ministries got charters signed in Russia. 
Danischevsky possibly had some influence—at a price. But 
to this his business ethics would not let him stoop. Previous 
attempts at explanation had brought no more sympathy than 
this letter; it was useless to explain further, useless to attempt 
either the description or the enumeration of the countless 
casual indifferences of a foreign land and a foreign people. 

What was there still untried and within the bounds his 


6 WINE OF FURY 

conscience set for him? What could he do that he had not 
already done to hasten the signature to the charter which he 
must have before the office could open for business? Ah, the 
Countess Borovskaya! He had not seen her in two weeks. 
The most influential person he knew, she had once promised 
to work for him. Had she forgotten the promise? He would 
call on her. 

He took his hat and stick and nodded acknowledgment of 
the uniformed doorman’s deep bow as he went out. A faint, 
warning chill in the hazy air caused an involuntary quivering 
of his shoulders. 

He had not gone a block along the quay before there 
followed, some fifty paces behind him, a man in student’s 
uniform. 


II 

As he approached the Summer Garden David saw that it 
teemed with people. His pace slackened as he watched them. 
Young and old, civilian and military, they were making the 
most of one of their last opportunities to stroll in the shaded 
paths before winter stripped the trees and the park should be 
closed. Onlookers idled on the benches. The tea-house, with 
its brood of outdoor tables, buzzed with conversation. As 
though from sheer weariness of the season’s length the trees 
had already begun to shed their dust-laden leaves, and against 
their branches the stone statues, fixed in their attitudes of 
struggle and appeal, seemed more naked than ever. Nor were 
they warmed by the rays from the sun’s burnished disc, which 
rolled on the edge of the horizon, weak from distance. 

At the towering iron gates stood the tall police guards, im¬ 
pressive and forbidding in their long-coated uniforms and 
armament of sabre and pistol. Just outside stood groups of 
people, some who stopped to chat, some to bow, cross them¬ 
selves and stuff paper kopecks into the collection-box before 


THE AWAKENING 7 

the marble and glass-enclosed shrine, and others who paused to 
drop their contributions into the outstretched cap of a one- 
legged soldier leaning against the iron fence. 

Loud voices sounded from the gateway. Within, the two 
policemen, in no ceremonious fashion, had seized upon an 
unprotesting peasant soldier and, with all the officiousness 
they could summon, were hurrying him through the gate. 

A big fellow, too, he was, with the familiar curl of hemp¬ 
like hair pulled down over his eye from under the visor of 
his jaunty army cap. He was young—not more than nineteen 
or twenty—with something of the ungainly attractive awkward¬ 
ness of a puppy in the movements of his heavy shoulders, 
turning and swaying from his belted waist, and in his sturdy 
legs, with their greenish brown trousers tucked into three- 
quarter-length boots. 

From the puzzled expression on his boyish face things 
had evidently moved too quickly for him. He said nothing, 
but looked about in wonder, one hand still clutching a paper 
cornucopia of sunflower seeds. 

Various remarks came from the surrounding crowd. “Why 
do you pick on the soldier?” asked one voice. “Yes,” said 
another, “and a brave one too. See, he has the St. George 
Cross, and he has been wounded.” 

“That makes no difference,” ejaculated one of the police¬ 
men, turning savagely as though to spring at the questioners. 
“The garden is not for soldiers who eat sunflower seeds there. 
That is forbidden. You all know it. The husks litter up 
the walks. He was eating them and spitting husks over every¬ 
thing. So out he goes.” 

“What are the parks for, if not to walk and enjoy oneself 
in?” queried a woman. 

“They’re not to be dirtied up so that decent people can’t 
walk in them,” replied the policeman. 

“Shame!” cried another. “This boy who has fought for 
us is more decent than you are, you who’ve never done any¬ 
thing more dangerous than bully droshky drivers.” 


t 


I 


8 WINE OF FURY 

“Maybe his time will come,” muttered someone. 

“That tall policeman,” derided another; “look at him. He 
looks like Rasputin.” 

“To whom do the parks belong?” asked a workman. 

“To the Tsar,” shouted the policeman. “Have you anything 
to say against the Little Father?” 

“Ha, ha! look at Foma Ivanovitch,” laughed one of a 
group of soldiers which had joined the spectators. “He’s 
been thrown out of the Summer Garden. A good joke. What 
do you think of it, Foma Ivanovitch?” 

“I do not know,” replied the ejected soldier called Foma. 
“Let me by, please.” And, pushing his way through the 
crowd, he clumped off down the quay, chewing the sunflower 
seeds which he constantly took from the cornucopia. 

The people lingered to look in awe at the policemen as 
they strode up and down before the gate. 

“Bah!” exclaimed a bearded man of the merchant class un¬ 
der his breath, “these dogs of policemen.” 

“Never mind,” said another, “winter is coming and the gar¬ 
den will be closed in a few days.” 

David would have liked to talk with the soldier. Something 
in the boy’s face—youthful good nature and distress at being 
made so conspicuous—imprinted it in his thoughts. He re¬ 
sumed his way with a smile on his lips. 

Meanwhile the sun had succumbed to the insistent clouds. 
Suddenly it lit up the ragged border of a rift like a flaming 
edge of paper. As suddenly it vanished, leaving the swift and 
early afternoon darkness to settle over the city and reduce 
its western activity to the somnolent indifference of the east. 


Ill 

The Countess Borovskaya was at home. 

He thought of her always with respect and sometimes with 
amusement—respect for the social position she had attained 
and amusement because of her past, which she made no great 


THE AWAKENING 9 

effort to conceal. There was also the bond of sympathy 
established by the Countess’ American birth. Her Russian 
marriage had no doubt startled her friends in the United 
States, and it did more than that to the socially elite of the 
Russian capital. In fact the romance and marriage of the 
old Count Borovsky at first convulsed, then astonished, and 
finally enraged Petrograd society to the point of helplessness. 
All because the striking Countess had come to Russia as a 
vaudeville performer, gossip had it; none other than Elena 
Rockwell, “The Daring American, who Has Electrified 
Thousands the World Over with her Death-defying Dive 
of Sixty Feet into a Five-foot Tank of Water.” But diving 
ability or not, Elena made a striking enough figure in her 
black silk tights with the sheen of water and lights upon them 
to attract and hold the attention of the Count, who had 
promptly married her. 

Society had immediately boycotted the new member of the 
nobility. But society was powerless before the Count’s 
influence at Court and the wit and tact of the Countess Elena, 
and not many seasons had passed before it was she who pulled 
the strings of the social marionettes. 

By study she had risen to the responsibilities of her position, 
but she was natural enough at times to ignore them. She 
played numerous roles equally well. There was the verve 
and wit of her grand manner which made her brilliant in 
society; there was the still grander manner to which she rose 
when someone who knew a little of her past but not enough of 
her present was led too far by his knowledge; and there was 
the frank, generous, almost boyish good nature into which she 
relapsed with her good friends. Her facility in changing 
from one of these moods to another kept her casual ac¬ 
quaintances on edge as to their status with her; which was 
no small part of the secret of her success. 

She always received David in the last mood. 

He found her alone in the vast reception room, the bare 
spaces of its high walls relieved by tapestries and gilt-framed 
oils, the shining expanse of hardwood floor patched with 


10 WINE OF FURY 

Persian rugs, the ornate stilted furniture arranged in gossip¬ 
ing groups, and the deep windows shaded by the heavy 
silken draperies. 

She wore a clinging, fur-trimmed gown of vivid green 
which emphasised her bronze hair and clear complexion as 
well as her trim figure—just the kind of gown which had soon 
convinced the Count’s male friends that, after all, “the Old 
Boy” had not been so foolish in contracting such a marriage. 

“It’s you, stranger!” she exclaimed with genuine enthus¬ 
iasm. “I’m really glad you’ve come—and sorry I haven’t 
been in when you called before. Please sit down,” she con¬ 
tinued, indicating a satin-covered divan. “You are looking 
glum. Ah, I know, I haven’t offered you a cocktail yet! 
You shall have as many as you want, made with the touch 
of New York, and we’ll have a good old talk and rake our 
friends over the coals.” She pressed the button beside the 
mantel and within a few moments the servant appeared bearing 
a tray laden with the wherewithal for mixing the cocktails 
which contributed so much to the Countess’ fame as a hostess. 

“To your health,” said David, raising the slender-stemmed 
glass offered him. 

“It is always good,” answered the Countess. “To home— 
and Russia.” 

“Speaking of home,” he resumed, after having his glass 
filled again, “I wish the home authorities could do something 
to stop my being watched. Every move I make. The man 
at the door of the office building is an agent of the police. 
There are others who shadow me as I go about the city. 
Then the police at every turn. And when I move I must 
have my passport viseed by the police of the new district; 
when I go to Moscow I must have police permission before 1 
can leave the station. At my apartment, as in every other 
building of its kind in the city, when I enter the lobby, there’s 
the inevitable face at the small window in the door leading 
to the doorman’s apartment. Never have I come in or gone 
out without that face, some face, being there. It gets on my 
nerves. What have I done? Why am I watched so?” 


THE AWAKENING 11 

“You mustn’t take it too seriously. It’s all part of the 
system. You will be watched for a while, and then no more. 
And when you have piled up great responsibilities here you 
will thank the system for its way of watching new-comers 
whose aim might be to wreck everyone’s responsibilities. 
Whatever you think of the system, it is the system, and the 
chances are that you will prosper under it. You will become 
interested in Russia and its people. I dare say you will 
adopt their easy-going ways. You will not be able to read 
the Sunday paper on Saturday night here the way you could 
in New York, but you will learn to love and enjoy life more 
than before.” 

She paused while she moved the tea-stand. “But let me 
tell you,” she continued, “look out for the Russian women. 
Young, unmarried—but if you were it would make no 
difference—and with one of the world’s largest financial 

houses behind you- Oh! I hate to think of it! They’re 

clever. Some will throw themselves at you.” 

“Hm-m-m,” mused David. “I’m not so sure about that. 
I met one the other day who didn’t.” 

“Do you mean that you wish she had?” asked the Countess 
quickly. “Who was she? Tell me.” 

“Natalie Dukharina.” 

The Countess pursed her lips and nodded slowly. 
“Oh-h-h!” she commented, with an air of surprised approval. 
“You are doing well. How did this happen, if I may ask?” 

“Quite by chance—or good luck. I wandered into the 
cathedral and found myself involved in a rather impressive 
service. The place was packed. It’s huge inside, isn t it? 
I was standing near one of the pillars in the middle of a 
crowd gathered before one of the big ikons—it seemed ablaze 
with jewels and candles—when I felt a tap on my shoulder. 
I turned round. Against the marble wall was a one-legged 
soldier on crutches. He was blind too; I knew from the way 
he listened. He was holding a candle out towards me. I 
didn’t know the custom then. I didn’t know what he wanted. 
But there was a nurse with him ... in white . . . blue cape, 


12 WINE OF FURY 

slung back over her shoulders, head-dress and all.... Her 
eyes were wonderful . . . with the light of the candles in 
them. She was one simple, white figure in an aggregation 
of bizarre magnificence. I’m afraid I stared. But she didn’t 
seem to notice. She spoke to me in English as though we’d 
always known each other—that’s a pleasant way Russians 
seem to have with foreigners. ‘He wants you to pass the 
candle along,’ she said. ‘It will reach the ikon, be lighted, 
and put in place. It is the custom.’ I took the candle, and 

we watched it go from hand to hand until it was lighted and 

placed before the ikon. There was a kind of associate 
interest in it. ... Well, when the service was over, she 
seemed to be having difficulty in the crowd getting the soldier 
out. I helped. Drove them to the hospital. Then drove 
her home. On the Kamenno-Ostroffski.” 

He paused. The Countess, who had listened attentively, 
evidently saw that he was interested in this topic of conver¬ 
sation. “Natalie is a leader here in relief work,” she said. 
“The trade schools which teach the wounded a trade whereby 
they can make a living are largely her idea—formerly the 

men were turned out of the hospitals with no other reward 

for their pain than a permit to beg in the streets—and the 
schools we have now are a result of her efforts. She’s a 
courageous girl. Did you meet the rest of the family?” 

“Her sister Anna was there . . . bobbed hair . . . restless, 
like a bird.” 

“Yes, she’s a dear little thing. Quite irrepressible. Baron 
Danilov’s young son, Lieutenant Alexei Nikolaievitch, is in¬ 
fatuated with her. Did you meet General Dukharin?” 

“No. It’s a funny thing. He was there, in his study, 
they said, but he wouldn’t come out. Absolutely refused. 
Said he wouldn’t come out even if I’d been the Tsar! Natalie 
seemed to think it a great joke.” 

“Yes, that’s typical. He was in one of his moods for work. 
Something must have gone wrong at the War Ministry. He 
would not have come out if you’d been the Tsar, either. But 


THE AWAKENING 13 

you mustn’t mind that. You must meet him. General Dukh- 
arin is also Prince Dukharin, but he prefers to he known by 
his military title. He is one of the ablest men in the army. 
In fact it’s thanks to his efforts that the army gets any supplies 
at all. Without him the system would collapse. He’s had 
a remarkable career. Has been all over the world. He’s 
said to be quite wealthy, although the family makes no show 
of it. He’s supposed to own, or to be interested in, a gold 
mine in the Urals. You’ll enjoy knowing him. He’s a great 
talker. Loves to argue. Has definite opinions and expresses 
them forcibly. How about the Princess, have you met her?” 

“Yes. In black, with too white skin, a black ribbon round 
her neck—no longer youthful—and rather too much jewellery, 
I thought. She seemed artificial. I can’t reconcile myself 
to her being the mother of the two girls.” 

“She’s not the mother of the children. There was a son, 
you know. They probably didn’t mention him to you. 
They rarely do. It has such an effect on the General. He 
was a fine boy. Killed a year and a half ago in the great 
advance. Twenty years old. The real Princess Dukharina 
was a charming woman—a lovable woman. She died four 
years ago. Two years ago the General married the present 
Princess. How he could do it is beyond me. She is”—the 
Countess raised her hands, palms outward—“well, you’ll have 
to form your own opinions. I’ve nothing to say. Natalie 
is accepted as the real head of the house, however. You’ll 
realise that as you know them better.” 

“Which is contingent upon my seeing them again,” added 
David. 

“Oh, but you must!” exclaimed his hostess. “They’re 
attractive people. Substantial. You’ll learn more about 
Russia from them than anyone else I can think of. And 
they can help you in your work too,” she added significantly. 

“That is,” interjected David, with a smile, “if I have any.” 

“What do you mean? Surely you’re not thinking of leav¬ 
ing, are you? Of giving up? Why, you haven’t begun!” 


14 WINEOFFURY 

“That’s just it,” he replied. “And it begins to look as 
though I never would. Four months now and no charter. 
I can’t wait much longer.” 

“I promised to help you, didn’t I?” said the Countess; 
and then, without awaiting his reply, “and I shall. I haven’t 
much influence in the Ministry concerned, but there are ways. 
I’m sorry I neglected this. I’ll see what can be done. I 
don’t suppose you object to a little pressure being brought 
to bear?” 

“I don’t object to anything as long as it’s not dishonest, 
as long as it cannot place the name of my institution or 
my own name in an unpleasant light, and as long as it’s 
effective.” 

There was a pause after this statement, during which 
the Countess seemed to be thinking. Her regular features 
were set in a fixed expression of decision. When she spoke, 
it was casually, as though she were merely changing the 
subject of conversation. “Have you seen Naritza?” In 
reply to his puzzled look she added: “The dancer. You’ve 
heard of her, of course?” 

“Almost everywhere you go in Russia you hear of two peo¬ 
ple—Naritza and Rasputin.” 

“Don’t mention that—that scoundrel in the same breath 
as Naritza. She has good points. He has none.” 

“Is he as bad as that?” queried David. 

“Worse. He’ll ruin the Royal family yet. Her Majesty 
loves the little Tsarevitch so much that Rasputin can do 
whatever he likes simply by telling her it’s for the good of 
the Tsarevitch or by threatening not to attend him the next 
time he is sick. But enough of him. You’ve heard of 
Naritza. Then you must not miss seeing her. She is in¬ 
comparable. Has a peculiar sort of beauty which is influ¬ 
ential. Most any kind usually is in Russia, especially in 
a woman.” 

“Is she so remarkable?” asked David doubtingly. 

“Not only as a dancer, but as a character too. She has 
the entree practically everywhere, just on her eccentricity. 


THE AWAKENING 15 

You heard how she sprang into prominence. No? Well, 
well, what have you been doing with your ears since you’ve 
been here? Naritza was one of the two dancers competing 
for the leading ballerina’s place at the Mariensky. She had 
her following—mostly because of her enthusiasm and love 
of a good time—and many thought she would oust Karsavina 
and attain the place. One evening a certain Duke, who had 
perhaps forced his attentions too far, threw her a bouquet 
held in a diamond bracelet from one of the big boxes near the 
stage, and Naritza, in her rage at this public ostentation of 
affection which she disliked—at least in public—hurled it 
back so quickly and with such force that in his endeavours to 
evade the missile his Excellency the Duke went heels over head 
from his chair into the rear of the box, landing with a resound¬ 
ing crash, an audible grunt, and a great jingling of spurs, dress 
sword and medals. In full view of the audience, too. Well, 
•you can imagine what followed. The next day there was 
great argument with the Director of the Ballet and the up¬ 
shot of it was that Naritza boxed the Director’s ears and re¬ 
signed. Of course she forfeited the State support; but she’s 
a general favourite with the men, and has hosts of admirers, 
is one requirement for the success of a big party, has jewels 
galore, furs, machines at her disposal, and a suite de luxe on 
the Kamenno-Ostroffski. She dances occasionally—special 
performances to replenish her treasury, or for charity—the 
soldiers, you know. Her performances of divertissements jam 
the theatre, and as her variety in them seems to be endless, 
she pleases everyone. Thus she keeps in the public eye. Her 
tricks in society keep her in the public ear. If you want to 
be one of the charmed circle and show that you are ‘in the 
know,’ you do not ask upon entering the room: ‘Well, what’s 
the news to-day?’ Oh no; you say: ‘Well, what’s Naritza’s 
latest?”’ 

The Countess’ conversational mood lasted for nearly an 
hour, and when David said “good-bye” he left her standing 
by the mantel, her green frock a sinuous, vivid spot of colour 
against the cold grey walls of the room, which echoed the 


16 WINE OF FURY 

tapping of her arched foot on the floor as though she were 

checking off the schemes that coursed through her intuitive 

mind. 

As he set out homeward he noticed with a feeling of baf¬ 
fled anger the man in student’s uniform just turning the near¬ 
est corner. 


IV 

When the Countess Borovskaya told David of Naritza’s 
rise to prominence by bowling over the Duke she omitted 
to mention the important fact that it was due to herself 
spending an afternoon hustling about in calling on this 
and that person of power that Naritza was not consigned 
to oblivion. For such was the case. As a result of her 
efforts the joke was turned on the Duke and what might 
have been the dancer’s finish was permitted to be her start. 

The enemies of the Countess had her compelled to this 
course by the Count—thereby insinuating a more than ordin¬ 
ary relationship between him and Naritza. But those who 
knew smiled at the thought of the Count compelling his wife 
to do anything, and the wiser of these attributed her action to 
a genuine interest in the talent of the magnetic Naritza and a 
sympathetic admiration for the progress of any woman in 
Russian society. As a matter of fact, Naritza had shown her 
gratitude by supplying her benefactor with valuable social 
and political information wheedled out of sodden gentlemen 
of high degree in the course of dinners and sprees in which 
she was one of Petrograd’s most notorious participants. And 
out of this mutual assistance arose a friendship which had 
proved lasting. 

These two women, who saw each other often, were alike and 
yet unlike. Alike because it might be said that they both 
progressed by taking advantage of the weakness of men; 
unlike because these weaknesses were so divergent. 

The Countess was intellectually superior to those about 


THE AWAKENING 17 

her. The inherent carelessness, diffidence to work but not 
to pleasure, generosity and patience of the Russian male 
temperament left every advantage for the persistent, resource¬ 
ful and determined ambition of her American femininity, 
with the result that she had mounted upward on the political 
ladder to her powerful position in Court society by a series 
of diplomatic and political skirmishes in which her initiative 
and superior intelligence had vanquished the hesitant opposi¬ 
tion. The same steel-wire nerve which had guided her in 
her dives from the sixty-foot platform into her five-foot tank 
of water led her to take with easy grace the plunge into the 
whirlpool of Russian Court intrigue; and similar swift, sure 
strokes to those which brought her to the surface in the tank 
carried her surely through the social waters. 

Naritza, on the other hand, progressed by her ability and 
willingness to take advantage of men’s physical weaknesses. 
Her verve, impetuous imagination and her reckless mien 
captivated and turned to her own use the emotion which her 
subtle beauty aroused. Her steep trail was already strewn 
with scandals and the wrecks of unions which had resulted 
from the superior bargaining power of her beauty. Confidence 
in the attraction of the seductive grace of line and movement 
of her body, which had held the eyes of thousands, led her 
to hold as of little worth the opinions of society on her actions; 
and the exquisite finesse with which she executed the pas de 
deux of one of Tchaikowsky’s famous ballets turned to other 
things brought the men to help her on the way she wanted to go. 

Thus these two. And each felt sorry for the other. “It’s too 
bad,” thought Naritza, “that the Countess doesn’t make more 
use of her beauty and less of respectability. The Russian 
cares little for that. What would she do in a society which 
had no mentality . . . only passion? She would be help¬ 
less . . . lost.” 

“Naritza does not realise,” the Countess had once said, “that 
persistence in her policy of appealing to men’s weakness is 
to make herself only as good as the men in power.” 

The Countess found Naritza in her boudoir. This room, 


18 WINE OF FURY 

the only blemish in an apartment otherwise in good taste, con¬ 
tained, in addition to the usual pieces of furniture, a hetero¬ 
geneous hoarding on all four walls of photographs, cards, 
programmes, menus and favours. To the unfamiliar the 
collection seemed a useless encumbrance. To Naritza, who 
knew the story attached to every piece, it was the treasure of 
her careless past. To keep them for a while had always been 
her habit, and only need of space for new mementos permitted 
the old gradually to be relinquished to the fire. Once, at the 
height of Naritza’s fame, the sojourn of a photograph on these 
walls—that of a Duke or a General or a baron of finance or 
industry—was brief. Had the walls ears they might have 
heard the frequent cry of their photo populace, “The king is 
dead. Long live the king,” as one after another they took 
their places in the sun of Naritza’s favour and moved on. Of 
late there had not been many changes. The pictures remained 
in place longer. Some, of the noblemen and men of great 
wealth, were actually years old. The queen was not so fickle 
or . . . 

Naritza lay on a low Recamier lounge, a study in black and 
white. Her black gown clung by thin threads to her shoulders 
and spread over the curves of her body to the floor. No cos¬ 
metics altered her features. Her skin had a natural white¬ 
ness, and against it the decisive lips, the narrow black eyes 
and the firm outline of her sleek hair stood out clearly. At her 
feet, curled in a white circle, slept a cat. 

The dancer sat upright upon seeing the Countess, who quickly 
noted something more than natural in her friend’s exuberance 
and in the pin-head pupils of her eyes. 

“That settles it,” she thought; “she shall have nothing to 
do with Mr. Rand or his business. She’s too dangerous.” And 
within the second she had reversed the plan of her call. She 
resolved not to mention David and his charter difficulties. 

“It seems an age since you’ve been here!” exclaimed 
Naritza. “I’m taking a little rest before going out to-night. 
Yes, another dinner by that old Prince. I’ll be bored, but 
I’ve got to go. Take off your things”—indicating the fur- 


THEAWAKENING 19 

collared cape the Countess wore—“and sit down for a while.” 

“Impossible, my dear,” replied that lady, sitting on the 
edge of the lounge. “I’ve only a minute. I came at this 
time because I haven’t been able to find you in at any other. 
Life is getting gay for you again, isn’t it?” 

“Well, I have been running around a bit.” 

“Which means, of course, that some others have been running 
around a hit too. Ah, my dear, you must take better care of 
yourself. Not that you show it—no, you are more 

alluring than ever, but-” and the Countess lifted 

her finger warningly and changed the subject. “What a 
simple gown!” 

“I hear that you are interested in finance,” said Naritza 
suddenly. 

“Yes?” queried her friend. 

“Foreign finance,” continued the dancer insinuatingly. 
“And those in charge of it, even the young American, Mr. 
Rand.” 

“Yes,” replied the Countess directly, as usual. “I am 
interested in him. He is a splendid young man. The odds 
against him here are tremendous. He does not realise how 
big they are. So I intend to help him.” 

“Interesting,” commented Naritza. “I have heard of him. 
He is young, is he not? And handsome? And in control of 
tremendous wealth? Ah—yes—very interesting. And than 
you, Elena Ivanovna, I dare say he could not have a more 
valuable friend.” 

“He probably knows it. If not, I shall see that he does. 
But—none of your tricks with him, young lady. You must 
leave him strictly alone. You must promise me that.” 

“Yes.” 

“Thank you, my dear. You shall meet him. He will be 
very nice to you, I’m sure. He’s not like the others. He has 
principles and he lives up to them. He’s come here with a 
high purpose—the introduction of Americanism into Russian 
business, and I’m going to see that Russia accepts the intro¬ 
duction. He is honest.” 


20 WINEOFFURY 

“And a banker!” broke in Naritza. “Impossible. He may 
be so with others, his clients, but then he cannot be honest with 
himself. I know very little about finance—except that I get 
the money—but Stephen Pavlovitch from the Finance Ministry 
—I dine with him once in a while, you know—he tells me that 
the essence of banking is to pay the depositors as little as possi¬ 
ble for their money and then let it out to borrowers for as much 
as possible. You have to hedge somewhere, you see. Some¬ 
one isn’t getting full value.” 

“I know, my dear,” continued the Countess; “but that is a 
somewhat elementary view of the subject. There’s much more 
than that. And I tell you that this man, David Rand, de¬ 
ceives no one.” 

“Ah, there is something wrong again. There is a certain 
amount of deception in each of us. We have to use it in some 
way. Some deceive their enemies, some their friends, and 
others—deceive themselves.” 

“As long as you’re not deceiving me now, we’ll not worry 
about that,” said the Countess with a smile as she patted the 
other’s hand and rose to leave. 

“No, Elena Ivanovna, don’t worry. You’ll have no com¬ 
petition,” stated Naritza as a parting shot. It slid harmlessly 
off the armour of the Countess’ imperturbability as she smiled 
acknowledgment and closed the door. 

For a minute or two Naritza lay unmoving on the lounge, her 
sweeping brows slightly knit. Then suddenly she seized the 
cat from its slumber and held its face to hers as she exclaimed: 
“What do you think of it, Petrushka? Young, good-looking, 
powerful with money, and, if we are fortunate, he will be 
under great obligations to us. It’s splendid, isn’t it?” 

Petrushka, relinquishing the temporary look of terror at 
being snatched from sleep and faint dream-calls of salmon 
tins and the cat next door to the horrible reality of woman’s 
silks and perfumes, resumed his normal expression of self- 
satisfaction, blinked into the eyes so close to his own, entered 
into the spirit of the game and purred his acquiescence. 


THE AWAKENING 


21 


V 

Foma Ivanovitch shrugged his heavy shoulders and turned 
from the quay out upon the arching bridge. The short pre¬ 
winter rainy season had set in. The haze which hung over 
the city, softening its definite outlines and making it a place 
of indistinct and imperturbable masses, burdened his lungs; 
and the rain washing in round the cobbles set in dirt and over 
the dust-caked wooden paving-blocks of the other streets 
covered them with a coating of yellow silt, which splashed 
to the narrow sidewalks from the slipping wheels of passing 
vehicles. 

He pulled his greatcoat closer about him in an effort to 
subdue a chill which seemed to come from within, from an 
empty longing for something which he could not explain as 
home-sickness for the simple reason that he had never been 
home-sick before. He leaned over the rail and looked down 
at the silent water. How it swirled about the stone abutments 
and how dirty it was! His gaze shifted from the sullen 
depths immediately below him to the distant mid-stream 
where two hulking wood barges came careening down with 
the current, and past them into the grey haze which hung, 
as always, over the river and the city. Up there, deep in 
the mist and some few versts inland, lay the village which 
had fostered him for eighteen years. 

Back there he had lived in happy ignorance of the world 
and its affairs; an ignorance not even perturbed by the 
occasional talk of the city’s marvels related by the river men 
who took the wood to Petrograd; of lamps that burned with¬ 
out fire, carts that moved without horses, and machines that 
flew. 

Back there were his mother and father, the latter still 
crippled and much addicted to his vodka, the former the 
Atlas of his small world; his two brothers, one now known 
to be dead and the other—people only kept silent and 


22 WINE OF FURY 

shrugged their shoulders at the sound of his name; his sister, 

slightly older than himself and another mother to them 

all, almost capable of doing the work of a horse in the 

fields as well as that of the little home; and last, there was 

Masha. 

Masha, the dear little one, a neighbour’s daughter, with 
whom he had played, quarrelled, and played again ever 
since they had each been able to walk. When very young, 
how they had run together hand in hand to chase the locusts 
to keep them flying over the fields without rest; and how the 
men used to laugh at them as they struggled with a stick of 
wood to get it on the barge as their share in the work of 
loading it; how, in the long white summer nights when the 
sun finally slipped below the horizon, leaving the sky ablaze 
with purple, orange and red, the two families used to sit 
before the low log house talking and laughing; and how 
Masha used to listen to his playing the accordion or thrum* 
ming on the balalaika an accompaniment to his singing of the 
haunting folk-melodies! 

And the walks they used to take hand in hand as it seemed 
they had always been, without speaking much, lips busy with 
eating sunflower seeds, through the woods of straight spruce- 
trees, across the fields of long grass and haze, sometimes 
stopping to bathe and swim in unsophisticated nakedness in 
their small tributary to the mighty Neva. He would marry 
Masha some day. That he loved her was certain. It must 
have been love that made him burn and left him weak the 
last time he had watched the sheen of water on her smooth 
skin. Yes, they would be married; they would have many 
children; they would be very happy. “Where are you, 
Masha?” he exclaimed unexpectedly, and the sound of his 
voice on the cold air startled him. Finding himself on the 
bridge still gazing into space, he grinned sheepishly and 
looked from side to side to see if anyone had noticed his 
foolishness. 

What a waste of time it was to be in the army! Could 
he ever forget the day the order came taking him away from 


THE AWAKENING 23 

home for it? The sadness of it! The mingled fear and 
pride with which he had gone to face death, to avenge his 
missing brother, and to fight for the Tsar! The long, tedious 
weeks of training left little impression, the more quickly for¬ 
gotten the better; and quickly forgotten they were when con¬ 
fronted with the actuality of the line and the first attack. He 
remembered having ventured to speak to an officer before 
it, calling his attention to the lack of ammunition for his 
rifle, his never having fired it more than a few practice shots 
in his army career; and the answer: “It’s not necessary. 
The Russian soldier rarely shoots. The bayonet, my boy, 
that’s the thing the German does not like. You will find 
him quite ready to surrender when our artillery has finished 
with his wire and you reach him.” He remembered the four 
hours’ pounding of their own artillery and even the pity they 
felt for the enemy at having to live through it. Then had 
come the signal, the jump up into the morning mist and the 
struggle across the mired ground, the diabolic chorus of 
yells from the strained mouths of his comrades sounding 
strangely clear in the silence from the enemy side; silence 
so absolute that in his heart, even before reaching the fore¬ 
most wire, a subtle feeling of betrayal crept in. Then came 
the sudden encounter with the enemy wire, perfect, untouched 
by the long bombardment, and yards deep; the awful chaos 
of gunfire, the rip of lead through the air from the hated 
trenches so near them but so far down death’s own road 
away. The cries of those struck; the desperation with which 
he beat at the wire with clubbed gun, tore at it with naked 
hands; the impact of a bullet striking him full in the lung 
with staggering force; his agonising, choking effort to breathe 
as he crawled back to his own—and nothing more for weeks. 
He shivered at the thought of all this as though to arouse him¬ 
self from a sleep of evil dreams, looked vaguely around and 
turned to walk on. 

But that barge now being warped alongside the line of 
others near the quay, the big two-hundred-footer laden to 
within three feet of the water, with the blue eyes painted at 


24 WINE OF FURY 

the bows, and the two figures straining at the great tiller at 
the stern—where had he seen it before? Surely it could 
not be that of Ivan Stepanovitch, the very one he had so 
often helped load in times past? But no other on the river 
had the blue eyes on the bows; that could only be old Ivan 
at the sweep; and—could it be possible?—that plump figure 
in the doorway of the little cabin amidships was Masha her¬ 
self! “God of mine,” he mumbled as he hurried from the 
bridge and down the quay as fast as his heavy muscles would 
carry him, his steel-shod boots ringing on the stone slabs of the 
sidewalk. He clambered over the low granite wall, jumped 
down to the deck of the intervening barge and across the 
narrow space of water, on to Ivan Stepanovitch’s deck. 

Clumsily he crawled across the wet and slippery wood piled 
high, stumbling, falling and scattering the pieces, causing 
old Ivan to hurry bow-ward to investigate the intruder, 
murmuring to himself: “What is this? God of mine! 
What is this? Who is this stupid fellow?” But the speed 
of youth and love brought Foma to the cabin first, and with 
a startled cry Masha was in his arms, her chubby hands 
clinched tightly behind his muscled waist. Old Ivan and 
Grisha Nikolaievitch, who on this trip had been “riding the 
sweep,” as the river men say in derision of those lacking ex¬ 
perience in steering the barges—these two found Foma and 
Masha standing apart and looking at each other in speechless 
amazement. 


VI 

The days following his happy meeting with Masha were 
bright for Foma in spite of the leaden skies. A good record 
made less harsh for him the iron discipline and he con¬ 
trived to obtain leave from barracks in the evenings. 

Then he went clumping to the quay, breaking in upon 
Masha and old Ivan in the little cabin as they sat with the 


THE AWAKENING 25 

samovar purring before them on the table. There followed 
long, happy hours of drinking innumerable glasses of tea 
and of talk about the home and its people, with Foma 
eagerly asking such questions as, “What news of Nikolai 
Elman ovitch who disappeared so strangely? Is Alexei 
Petrovitch still drunk? And does Olga still beat him so 
terribly? Has Vanya a new horse yet?” and the like; and 
the two of them waiting patiently, holding hands across the 
table, while Ivan discoursed at length over the answers as he 
was wont to do. Sometimes Foma listened carefully while 
Masha painfully read extracts from the daily paper, for she 
was a clever one and had already learned to read and write 
a little. One night she even wrote a letter for him to his 
mother, short and stilted perhaps, but nevertheless a letter. 
It ran something like this: 

Darling Little Mother, —I am in Petrograd. I am very well. I 
want to see you very much. Masha and Uncle Ivan are here and I see 
them every night. We are having a very fine time. I have a medal. It 
is very pretty. Before the regiment goes to the front again I shall 
try to get home to see you and show it to you. I send you many kisses— 
so does Masha. Your loving and faithful son. 

Foma Ivanovitch. 


How it must have pleased her! 

After such evenings Foma, leaving Masha at the quay be¬ 
fore the barge with a warm kiss on her full lips, returned to 
the barracks and went happily to bed with his fellows on 
the long, sloping board platforms built down the middle 
of the great room for that purpose. He dreamed about Masha, 
and in his dreams he felt the moisture of her hand in his, 
saw the brightness of the oval face and the black eyes peeping 
out from the encircling shawl. 

Masha’s presence and his consequent wish to be with her 
as much as possible inspired him to be as good a soldier 
as he could in order that he might obtain the leave privileges 


26 WINE OF FURY 

so much desired. Hence during the day he did his work 
with what the officers, had they deigned to notice, might 
have termed unnatural snap and alacrity. 

He took care to violate no canon of discipline. His per¬ 
formance at drill was as near perfect as could be; his work 
on guard duty an example to the others of his company; 
and in passing the Winter Palace he even did with enthus¬ 
iasm his “Eyes right” and shout of praise to the Tsar, who 
had long ago ceased to live there. 

His good work had its effect. He gained more time to 
spend with Masha. It was all very well. He was happy. 
And Masha and Uncle Ivan stayed on the barge in Petrograd 
far longer than they had intended—thanks to the persuasive 
power of Masha’s broad, slow smile. 

This could not last. He had known that in the back of 
his mind ever since it had begun. Some day soon the last 
stick of birch would be sold and thrown out from the barge, 
and it being too good a one to be left behind and cut up 
for fuel, a tug would tow it back up the river. With it would 
go Uncle Ivan and Masha. 

Why couldn’t he hold her here in Petrograd? The thought 
set his mind at once into action. They could be married 
and then she could stay as his wife. But no, he was a soldier 
and must live in barracks, and what was the use of being 
married if it was impossible to be with one’s wife? 

But if she could only stay awhile there might be peace and 
then he would be free. Only yesterday that strange fellow 
Vletsky, who always made him feel so uncertain, only yester¬ 
day he had said that soon Russia might have to let the Ger¬ 
mans have peace because in the west the English and the 
French were beaten, were going to make a separate peace with 
Germany, and in that case Russia could not very well be ex¬ 
pected to fight it out all alone. 

If this were true he might marry Masha soon after all. 
Meanwhile she* could live in Petrograd and perhaps work 
in a munitions factory where he had been told the girls were 
paid fabulously. He would see on the very next day. 


THE AWAKENING 27 

The munitions factory scheme did not materialise, because, 
although the girls did receive a great deal of money, it also 
cost very much to live in Petrograd, especially if one did not 
have a home. But a friend in the company knew of a rich 
lady on the Kamenno-Ostroffski who wanted another maid to 
stand in the queues for bread, milk and meat while the regular 
maids did the usual work at home. Upon investigation this 
turned out well, and after a long talk with Masha and Ivan in 
the cabin the night before the barge went back up the river 
it was decided that Masha should remain behind; and also, 
what old Ivan did not know for certain but probably guessed, 
that when peace came she and Foma would be married. So 
the tug puffed up the river with the barge following sullenly, 
and Masha went to her new home with the Dukharins. The 
next morning she joined one of the long lines of patiently 
waiting women which formed early before one of the city’s 
food shops. 

One night winter warned of its approach. In the hours 
of darkness the announcement came with all the assurance 
of self-conscious power. The cold, drizzling rain quietly 
turned to snow which sifted down noiselessly. Most of 
it melted away into invisible moisture, so that the grey morn¬ 
ing showed but a ragged white blotch here and there on the 
yellow-brown cobbles and the silt-covered paving-blocks. 
The day’s rain soon obliterated these. But the following 
evening the air was slightly colder, the rain changed its 
temper earlier, fell with a bit more inexorable insistence, and 
when the second morning dawned the pavements and streets 
were white. 

Thereafter the passionless fall was rarely definitely stopped. 
Each afternoon the swift darkness found the flakes settling 
from the low-hanging clouds, sticking to the clothes and the 
features of the pedestrians, and wavering with almost hesitant 
softness into the dim green aura of the street lights’ glare, to 
float through it reluctantly on into the darkness again. And 
each morning the darkness lifted upon the same veil-like 
shroud lingering over the city. 


28 WINEOFFURY 

At first the Neva, black and sullen under the overhanging 
cloud of bitter mist, absorbed in undemonstrative scorn the 
reiterated millions of falling flakes, each one like a gleaming 
point of emphasis that winter had come. Then one morning 
small films of ice came floating down, each with sides walled 
up by rubbing others; the next day they were larger and 
thicker, and upon some the grey and black Siberian crows rode, 
croaking over their cleverness; later there were more and more 
cakes, still larger and heavier, and finally the whole surface 
of the river seemed covered with them . . . and still. Then 
the tugs which formerly slid about so easily, coughing 
fountains of bright sparks from their tall stacks, scurried 
through the thin ice to their winter quarters, no more barges 
came down and the Blessed Neva was stilled for seven long 
months. 

Meanwhile a new officer arrived at Foma’s barracks. He 
was assigned to Foma’s company. With the others of the 
soldiers Foma did not pay much attention to officers, except 
to salute them and obey their orders implicitly—always. It 
did not pay otherwise. This one differed little in appear¬ 
ance from many of the others. He was perhaps a bit smaller, 
his hair more sleek, his moustache more pointed, his 
uniform of finer material and snappier cut. He wore his 
cap at the proper rakish tilt, his leather and brass shone, and 
his boots were spotless. Also he smelled very nice when 
near. 

Foma started badly under him. 

His company was the crack company of a crack regiment. 
Plans held it in Petrograd throughout the winter in order 
that it might be made the nucleus of one unit of the Russian 
armies that were to take the field against the Germans in the 
coming summer. New equipment was being assembled; 
reserve ammunition and supplies stored up; and new systems 
carefully and rigidly fostered the fighting efficiency of every 
military unit. Hence the order of the day called for drill 
and more drill; and Foma’s company left the great brick-and- 


THEAWAKENING 29 

plaster barracks at least once, and sometimes twice, a day to 
perform its evolutions in various parts of the city. 

Sometimes they drilled on the vast extent of the Field of 
Mars and sometimes on the cobbles of the square before 
the Winter Palace; but nearly always the drill took place 
before an admiring crowd of civilian spectators and recruit 
soldiers from other barracks. 

Occasionally, on her way to a certain shop where butter 
could be purchased, Masha joined this crowd and watched the 
drill. Of the entire company she saw only Foma. How could 
anyone look at the others: Foma looked so fine at drill. 

The new officer had not been in command more than three 
days when she stopped to watch one morning at the entrance 
to the square. The efforts of each man in the company to 
do his best for the new commander were plain. They were 
trying, as rarely before, to please him, Foma no less than any¬ 
one else. 

Out of the corner of his hazel eye he caught sight of the 
familiar huddled figure, the well-known tan shawl over the 
beloved sleek hair and shining face. His glance lingered 
for the fraction of a second in the admiring gaze of Masha. 
Ah, she was watching him and only him. He would show 
her what a good soldier he was. The commands came 
rapidly now, following upon each other almost without pause. 
Arms shot from angle to angle, rifle and bayonet swung and 
rattled in perfect unison. “Ah ha,” thought Foma, “that 
was a good one. No other company could do as well as 
that. How did she like that?” The new officer continued 
putting them through their paces. He was seeing what they 
could do. He had perhaps heard of them and refused to 
believe. He would see whether or not they tired like other 
men. “We shall show him,” thought Foma; and as the 
commands rattled on he closed his eyes and abandoned himself 

to the rhythm of their execution. “Masha will- God 

of mine! what’s that?” He was a fraction of a second be¬ 
hind in getting his rifle to his shoulder. In haste to make 


30 WINE OF FURY 

it up his cold finger slipped. His rifle fell clattering on the 

snow, leaving his empty hands to paw the air in desperation. 

The officer stepped up to him. “Dunce!” he shouted, and 
Foma received his closed fist squarely upon the mouth. 

In all the long line not a head turned, not an eye wavered 
to the side. The blow made little impression upon Foma’s 
solid teeth. He was surprised, however, and chagrined that 
Masha had seen his disgrace. He picked up his rifle, spat 
blood upon the ground and waited for the next command. 
The drill went on. 

That night while he was involved in pulling off his shirt 
and trousers before rolling himself up in his blanket and 
greatcoat on the sloping platform Vletsky and a companion 
approached him. 

“You like the New One?” asked Vletsky, showing his 
animal teeth in a cynical smile. Foma shook his head. “He 
is not so good a man as you,” continued Vletsky, “but the 
Tsar made him an officer. When peace comes there is going 
to be a revolution and then there will be no Tsar to make 
such mistakes. In the revolution who will you fight for?” 

“Revolution?” thought Foma. “What does the fellow 
mean?” And then he replied aloud: “I shall fight for the 
Tsar, and so will you. We have sworn to.” 

Vletsky and his companion looked at him in amazement, 
and then the latter exclaimed “Schweinkopf!” and turned 
away. 

“What is that—Schweinkopf?” demanded Foma, beginning 
to be annoyed. 

“It is German,” said someone at his side. 

“German!” replied Foma. “If he is Russian why doesn’t 
he talk Russian?” But he found himself without hearers, 
and lay down. 

For a while he lay thinking about this talk of revolution. 
How open it was getting to be in the barracks! He had always 
heard talk about it, even in the native village when his father 
whispered with a friend in a quiet corner over their vodka. 
When a little fellow he had hid under the table more than 


THE AWAKENING 31 

once and listened, breathless from fear, to the graphic account 
of his father’s escape from death in the Red Square in 1905, 
of his father’s father’s violent end many years before, and of 
prophecy and exultation over the uprising which would some 
day surely come. But the talk was no longer in whispers in 
corners: it was loud and in groups in the barracks. Said 
one: “We must hurry and win the war so we can have 
a better government. It would not do to change in war-time, 
so we must hurry and win.” Said another: “Win the war? 
These people are trying to lose it. This Rasputin is an evil 
fellow; he has the Empress in his power and they are selling 
us to the Germans. The Little Father is not strong enough; 
he cannot stop them. We shall be disgraced. Something 
must be done.” Conversations such as these set him thinking, 
until he consoled himself with the thought that all these men 
were great talkers and there was little else to do in the 
barracks except talk. Had they not always talked? Even 
his grandfather? And as for himself, what did he want with 
revolution when he had Masha? 


VII 

David had called upon Natalie Mikhailovna at the spacious 
house on the Kamenno-Ostroffski. He had met the bluster¬ 
ing General, her father, whom he had found as interesting as 
reputation described him. In spite of the artificiality of 
the Princess herself, being a friend in the home-circle of this 
family had shown him a heretofore unknown side of Russian 
life. He felt more than ever the sincere, human hospitality 
of it. And as the Countess Borovskaya had told him, he had 
found that Natalie was responsible for much of this impression. 

During these weeks he had thought of her often and at 
length; usually as he had seen her the first time in the 
cathedral. What haunted him was not only the face framed 
in the white head-dress, the incisive moulding of her features, 
the ivory colour of her skin and the curves of dark hair on 


32 WINE OF FURY 

her temples, but an impression of spirit emphasised by a 
certain calm poise which indicated vaguely, nevertheless per¬ 
sistently, the presence of an intangible but definite contribution 
to reality. 

One day he accompanied her to the hospital. He had 
never visited a war-time hospital, but reading and his 
imagination had furnished him with a mental picture which 
he realised was romantically coloured as soon as he crossed 
the threshold of the reality. There was little of the romantic 
in these bare rooms, their stark walls lined with iron beds, 
their rows of dishevelled peasant soldier faces, and the con- 
glomerant atmosphere of confined humanity, food and 
disinfectants. 

Full appreciation of it and of the spirit required to labour 
in it day after day, and sometimes night after night, did not at 
first come to him. He was too preoccupied with watching 
her as she led him from bed to bed and from room to room. 
“That man,” she said, indicating a huge whiskered soldier 
who pulled the bed-clothes about his neck and indulged in 
a fit of coughing, “is one of the cleverest impostors we’ve 
had. He was sent here as a gas case. He’s fooled us for a 
while, but no more. There’s nothing the matter with him 
except laziness; he’d rather stay in bed and be fed than 
work or fight. Out he goes just as soon as we can fix up 
his papers. He’s been clever, though,” she added, with a 
good-humoured smile. 

“Are there many gas cases?” he asked. 

“Far too many.” 

“The Germans stole a march there, didn’t they?” he 
commented. 

“Yes,” she admitted; “I suppose so. But not a very 
justifiable one.” 

“Why not?” he replied, reasoning along purely logical 
lines. “War is the science of destruction. Any methods 
which are effective are justifiable.” 

“Have you seen the effects of gas?” she asked gently. 

“No,” he replied. 


THE AWAKENING 33 

“Have you ever breathed it?” came the relentless question. 

“No” was the only truthful answer he could give. 

She said no more. There was silence, save for the muffled 
noises of the hospital. 

Her silence meant more than any words she could have 
spoken. It pointed out to him the vast vital difference 
between her background of fact and his of the idea. He could 
think of nothing to say. They walked on. More beds, more 
rooms, more wan faces. Occasionally he had to wait while 
attendants and nurses discussed hospital problems with his 
escort. 

“It’s a big work,” he admitted finally. “You are putting 
a lot of effort into it. What if, for one reason or another— 
politics, treachery or the like—you should fail?” 

“I can’t fail,” she replied. 

“Why not?” 

“Because I am not trying to get anything. I am simply 
giving the best of what I have to people who need.” 

“Oh,” he said, from the uncertainty of his thoughts. 

He induced her to leave the hospital early and accompany 
him on a short walk. It passed all too quickly, with the 
discussion of their respective plans. Once, as they made 
their way across a busy square, Natalie directed his attention 
towards a soldier and a girl passing them without notice in 
the restless crowd. “Look,” she said, “there goes our new 
maid with a soldier friend—already. She’s been in the city 
only a few days.” 

David regarded the couple carefully. The soldier was he 
who had been ejected from the Summer Garden for eating 
sunflower seeds. Foma Ivanovitch, his friends had called him. 
He related the incident in detail to Natalie. “Strange that I 
should see him again,” he remarked, “and with someone 
from your house. But here we are.” 

They approached the building which, in the event of his 
institution being permitted to do business in Russia, would 
be his quarters. It had once been an embassy, the show place 
of a minor state which bent the shoulders of its subjects lower 


34 WINE OF FURY 

to the wheel in order to support it and by lavishness of 
display and concurrent intrigue gain diplomatic victories it 
could not attain by prestige or natural right. 

The atmosphere of the great, gaily decorated rooms, in 
spite of their bareness of furniture, did much to raise David 
from the depression into which the hospital, with its hush of 
suffering, had plunged him. Compared with the hospital’s 
routine and practical task of relief, this place of his was alive 
and eager, as though infused with the ideas of wealth, power 
and influence which he had determined upon for it. As he 
described his plans to Natalie his voice became vibrant with 
enthusiasm and she noted in him again the tendency to ideal¬ 
ise the practical and the material, which she had been told 
was an American characteristic. This task he had undertaken 
she saw had attracted all his co-ordinated energies—his con¬ 
siderable physical strength, his keen mental processes and his 
limited emotional capacities. For other things which might 
demand a share of these energies he had now no use. For him 
they were not. He had begun this task. He must succeed. 
He was prepared to use every ounce of strength, every 
faculty, physical, mental and moral, that was in him. Yet, 
how could he concentrate to the exclusion of everything else 
upon this undertaking which was not a duty, towards which 
he felt little emotional urge? She wondered. What kind 
of training made it possible? She recalled an account of 
his education which he had given her one afternoon. She 
saw in swift review the comfortable, protected atmosphere 
of well-to-do family life that had surrounded him; his father 
and mother planning so that he, the only child, should want 
for nothing and should have his way. During early school¬ 
days the egoism which this engendered drove him on to best 
his fellows, and this trait he carried with him to the university. 
Here, where new-found self-reliance, pragmatism and desire 
for results pointed to honours, he applied himself to the task 
and won them. Because of them he had got a better start in 
business. Therefore, he had said, they were worth while. But 
they had absorbed his time. She recalled that in this account 


THE AWAKENING 35 

of his youthful rush to learn how to make a living he had 
said nothing about learning how to live. “Russia will teach 
him that,” she thought. 

He was talking to her. His voice had fallen from its 
enthusiastic pitch. “So far,” he was saying, “I seem to have 
accomplished little. I am no nearer the beginning of my 
work than when I arrived months ago. I have dashed from 
bureau to bureau, from official to official, but everywhere I 
find the same deference, the same smile, the same repulse. It 
is maddening. I do not understand the people here. I form 
my opinion of them based upon my Western code and 
suddenly it is made useless by some characteristic of the 
East, and I have to begin all over again. What is it?” There 
was something of despair in his voice as he asked the question. 

“I think they are more interested in processes than in 
results,” she offered by way of explanation. 

“That may he it,” he said, nodding; “but some of the 
processes can stand improvement. According to our business 
standards your people intrigue, bribe and even cheat their way. 
All I ask is a chance to show them the error of it; that it 
does not, in the long run, pay; that our business ideals do pay. 
They always have paid.” 

“I hope that’s not your only reason for adhering to them,” 
she said, with a smile. 

“No, no, it isn’t,” he answered, not fully comprehending 
her remark. Then, for lack of further words on this sub¬ 
ject, he pointed to a gilt-trimmed door. “The sanctum 
sanctorum , my office,” he laughed. He opened the door and 
shook his head regretfully as he contemplated the Victorian 
show of the room—the old-rose and blue rug of enormous 
flower pattern, the walls of old-rose silk tapestry, the large 
glass-and-gilt chandelier, and the ceiling painted with blue 
sky and clouds through which tumbled a border of fat, sex¬ 
less cupids and doves as large as chickens. 

“That’s your desk,” she said definitely, nodding towards 
the straight-lined office desk of yellow oak which dominated 
the display of the room. 


36 WINE OF FURY 

“Yes,” he replied, admiring its neat, businesslike lines. 
“Will you look at some of the other rooms? They’re going 
to be redecorated. You can give some advice, if you will.” 

They strolled from room to room. 

“You haven’t met my assistant, Mr. Radkin, yet, have you?” 
he asked. 

“No. You promised to introduce me. You started to tell 
me about him once, but you didn’t. Do you like him?” 

“Like him? Yes. I don’t understand him, though. But 
he has turned out to be invaluable, I’ll admit that. He knows 
the language so well, and understands the people. Where 
I only arouse indifference or procrastination, he seems to 
get what he wants. I suppose it’s natural enough. He’s 
among his own people. But he’s not entirely like them. Nor 
like any others I know. He seems to lack some essential, 
warming, humanising quality. The detached manner in which 
he does his work ... as though always thinking of something 
else; for all the world like a grown man playing with blocks; 
his impersonal manner with others . . . like a spectator at a 
comedy—these things point to some vital difference from the 
rest of us.” 

“Did you know anything about him before he came?” 

“No. The people in New York sent him. He arrived 
with letters from them. I certainly can’t complain of his 
work, but I must say he puzzles me. Perhaps it’s nothing. 
Perhaps with myself under suspicion here I’m getting to 
feel suspicious of everyone around me. I’m sorry I can’t 
explain my feeling about him, but, well—never mind. Now 
you’ve seen everything except two small rooms in the back 
here,” he remarked, changing the subject and leading her to 
the end of what was to be the main banking room. “I think 
we’ll use them for filing and store rooms. Look, they’re too 
small for anything else.” 

He flung open the door and stepped back in surprise. 
Natalie, too, gave a start. Through the doorway and that of 
the room beyond they saw some eight or ten labourers and 


THE AWAKENING 37 

soldiers, grouped about a man wearing a stiff black coat and 
carrying a black Persian lamb hat, who had evidently been 
addressing them. 

It was Radkin. 

As he flung the door open, David remembered distinctly 
having two pictures of the man registered in his mind. The 
first was a profile; the chin with pointed black beard thrust 
aggressively forward and its muscles contracted in emphatic 
speech; the straight line of the nose meeting at a rather sharp 
angle that of the high white forehead ending in the bristle 
of shining black hair. The second, as Radkin heard the noise 
and turned, showed clearly the triangular white and beard- 
pointed face, the thin lines of the lips and the flat, narrow 
parallelogram of the nose meeting the black lines of the eye¬ 
brows which shot away at an angle and bent down again 
towards the temples. For the first time since his arrival 
David noted that Radkin seemed to have lost his composure. 
He was plainly at a loss for something to say. Only for a 
moment, however, and when he did speak it was only to answer 
David’s snapping question, “Who are these men?” indicating 
the workmen and soldiers who stood looking at him stolidly. 

“They’re applying for work,” replied Radkin easily. 
“They’ve heard of the repairs we’re doing and they want 
work.” 

“These soldiers?” queried David quickly, his anger rising 
under the feeling that the man was fabricating his answers. 
“They can’t work. They are in the army. They are in the 
barracks here.” 

“They’re either applying for someone else, or they’re just 
friends who have come with the others,” said Radkin. 

David felt sure of the man’s falsity in this and he raged 
inwardly that he could not speak enough Russian to question 
the men directly and expose the hoax. As it was, he had to 
accept the explanation until he could plan a course of action. 
“Well,” he said sharply, “tell them to go away. We’ve 
nothing for them here. The artel is handling all our work.” 


38 WINE OF FURY 

“I was just doing that when you threw the door open,” said 
Radkin eagerly. “I’ve told them before, but they hang 
around waiting for me.” 

“If they won’t go,” exclaimed David, driven to the limit 
of his patience by the deception he felt was being practised 

upon him, “I’ll call the police-” He stopped in response 

to the pressure of Natalie’s hand on his arm. 

“No—no, not that, please,” she entreated. “Don’t get the 
police into this. They would report these soldiers to the 
officers at their barracks, and they would be punished— 
severely. You haven’t any conception of how severely 
they’re punished for even the most trivial things. Just tell 
them to go and I’m sure they will.” The words fairly tumbled 
from her facile lips. Radkin watched her as though fasci¬ 
nated. His hard white face seemed to soften as she spoke. 

David looked from Natalie to the man opposite. He could 
not resist the warm intensity of her plea. “I’ll leave it to 
you, then, to get them away from here,” he said to Radkin. 
“We’ve nothing for them. I’ll talk this over with you later.” 
He turned on his heel and walked to his office. Natalie 
followed. 

Inside and the door closed, he looked at her as though 
waiting for her to speak. She did not notice his expression. 
She seemed to be thinking, groping in the recesses of her 
memory for a recollection that would not come to light. 
“It’s strange,” she said, as though thinking aloud, “I’m sure 
I know that man. His name is not Radkin. I think I know 
who he really is. But I am not sure, and it is so important 
that I must be sure before I tell you. It may mean a great 
deal both to you and him. Far too much to him, anyway, to 
have a mistake made. I shall have to think about it, and look 
among some old papers at home. Father can help too. We 
must have father see him.” 

David could not suppress amazement at the matter-of-fact 
tone of her voice which contrasted with her ardent interest. 
“But what is it? Who is he? What is he doing here? Why 
is he deceiving me?” The questions rushed into utterance. 



THE AWAKENING 39 

“I can’t tell you now,” she replied. “Not until I am certain. 
There’s too much at stake. I must hurry home.” She 
paused as though searching again in her mind. “Ah!” she 
exclaimed at last. “You are coming to dinner with us at 
home next Thursday night, aren’t you? Well, I invite Mr. 
Radkin too. You must ask him for me. Say nothing more 
to him about this. Act as though you had forgotten it. But 
bring him with you Thursday evening. We’ll see how he 
strikes father. And not a word of this to anyone. Good-bye.” 

She was gone. He heard the brisk tapping of her heels 
on the hardwood floor, heard the creaking of the door below. 
He sat down at his desk and stared at the spot where she had 
stood. 


VIII 

Thursday evening the Dukharin doorman admitted David 
with a friendly smile and in the hallway the maid busied 
herself with his hat, coat and stick. 

Silk in motion whispered, and he looked round to see the 
Princess—in lavender, which emphasised the contrast of her 
silver-streaked hair—advancing to greet him with her tired 
smile and uplifted hand. The hand was soft, heavily 
jewelled and accustomed to being bowed over with an almost 
inaudible click of the heels and kissed. David’s lowering 
pressure of it seemed awkward. “Where is Mr. Radkin?” 
she asked after the welcome. “Natalie said that you were 
bringing him.” 

David regarded her closely as she spoke, but from the 
monotone of her voice it was plain that she had no interest in 
Radkin and that Natalie had said nothing of her suspicion. 

“When I saw him last, this afternoon at our building—he’s 
looking after the remodelling, you know—he said that he had 
business—a small matter—which will make him a bit late.” 

They had reached the music-room. Anna slid from the 
piano-bench and came to shake his hand. “You seem to 


40 WINE OF FURY 

have grown since I saw you last,” exclaimed David. Eighteen- 
year-old Anna hesitated and sought for words which would 
reply to this most sincere form of flattery to youth; but she 
could only smile her pleasure with a glistening of small teeth, 
a sparkling of brown eyes, a swift blush, and a retreat to 
the side of a youth in the dinner uniform of a lieutenant of 
artillery. 

“This,” continued the Princess, “is Lieutenant Alexei 
Danilov.” 

Alexei, a straight, handsome young chap of about twenty 
years, advanced to take David’s hand. His thick black hair 
combed close to his head in a part at the side shone in the 
light; his small dark eyes seemed to grow smaller as the 
muscles of his cheeks and his large thick lips moved in a 
boyish smile. He left off stroking what was but the shadow 
of a moustache, clicked jingling spurs on the heels of his 
black boots smartly, and bowed precisely over David’s hand— 
bowed as though bending on a hinge fixed at his tightly belted 
waist. 

David became aware that Natalie stood beside him. He 
turned and the beauty brought out by her soft black dress 
made him stare. “Sable and old ivory . . . and something,” 
he thought as he met the steady gaze of her dark eyes. 

“Tell me,” she said in a low voice, “has anything more 
happened?” 

“No,” he replied. “I haven’t mentioned the incident to 
Radkin, and he has behaved as though it had not happened. 
He thinks he got away with it.” 

“I think we are right,” she added. “I’m more sure than 
ever since I looked over some papers father has; but it’s 
father’s recognition I want. If he seems to remember, there 
won’t be any doubt. I’ve said nothing about it, and of course, 
unless father recalls him outright and mentions it, nothing 
must be said. That’s imperative. Here he is now,” she 
added as the maid went to the entrance. 

“Mr. Radkin,” came the announcement. 


THE AWAKENING 41 

The Princess swept through the room to meet the new¬ 
comer. 

He stepped into the light of the doorway, where he stood 
stiff and erect, waiting for the introductions which David 
offered. His pale face with its lacing of blue veins and the 
abrupt outline of the black, close-cropped hair over his high 
forehead stood out as though in a spotlight. 

“Well,” said David to Radkin after the greetings, “did 
everything go all right this afternoon?” 

“No, one of our ikons fell down and smashed.” 

“Why!” exclaimed Natalie, “that’s bad luck. A bad omen. 
But of course you Americans don’t believe in them.” 

“In America, no,” said David. “But in Russia I’m 
beginning-” 

“I’d thought,” said the Princess in her tired voice, “perhaps 
you wouldn’t have ikons in a foreign bank.” 

“Oh, but we must. It’s the law. Before we can open for 
business we must have one in each room, as well as pictures 
of the Tsar and the Tsarina in the entrance hall, and they must 
be officially blessed by a delegation from the Church. I 
gladly do it. I try to be tolerant. But I don’t understand. 
It seems to make a business of religion.” 

“Isn’t that better,” remarked Radkin, “than the American 
system of making a religion out of business?” 

“Score one for Russia,” cried Natalie gleefully. “What do 
you say to that, Mr. Rand?” 

“There’s not much I can say,” replied David laughingly, 
“when my own countryman is against me.” 

“Own countryman?” queried the Princess. “I thought you 
told us Mr. Radkin was born in Russia.” 

“Yes,” inserted Radkin, with something of eagerness. 
“Bom in Russia, but left it at the age of seven to go to 
America, where I am a naturalised citizen. You see, I am 
Russian by birth, but American ... by choice!” 

“Aha!” exclaimed David. “He cuts both ways. Now what 
do you say to that?” 


42 WINE OF FURY 

No one had the opportunity to reply. A servant appeared 
at the doorway and announced that dinner was served. 

“Anna dear,” said the Princess to the younger daughter, 
who, playing her one-finger duets with Alexei, was evidently 
living these moments in another world. “Anna dear,” she re¬ 
peated, the rise in her tone discounted by a smile as the girl 
turned quickly round with the suggestion of a blush on her 
fair face. “Entice your father from his study with the news 
that dinner is served.” And as Anna left the room she went 
on in a jesting tone: “The General studies at night, for no 
reason that I can see. He comes home, retires to that den of 
his growling like a bear if we so much as go near the door, 
and, in short, neglects his family woefully.” 

“Yes,” assented David, with a smile to Radkin and a 
comprehensive glance about the tapestried walls. “It is 
plain to see that, isn’t it?” 

The General, a grey, bushy, florid giant of a man, appeared 
in the doorway with Anna clinging to his arm and adjusting 
the single medal which stood out conspicuously against the 
dark blue of his tunic. A sixty-year-old epicurean, one might 
say at first sight. Here in the intimacy of his home and 
guests he appeared without the belts and straps he hated; 
without the ostentation of the layers of medals which had been 
presented him the world over until, as he remarked, he looked 
like a “blank, blank fancy diver”; and minus the tiny dress 
sword, the size of a table-knife, which at outside functions 
dangled ridiculously at his side. 

Impressiveness enveloped the General. Every movement he 
made assumed importance. His attitude was that of a man 
who has seen the world, made up his mind about it and things 
in general, and brooks no contradiction in the expression 
of his convictions. Moreover, in the majority of cases, the 
dignity which attended his rank precluded his encountering 
any contradiction. If, in addition to all this and his boisterous 
dogmatism, he was inclined to be unsympathetic, it was not 
evident from his actions with Anna. She was his favourite, 


THE AWAKENING 43 

judging by the tense manner with which he pressed her restless 
arm to his side, and leaned over as far as he could to allow 
her to whisper in his ear, to his evident vast amusement. 

“Good-evening, everyone,” he announced as he came through 
the doorway, gathering Natalie in the sweep of his free arm 
as he did so. “This is a rare pleasure, Mr. Rand. You do 
not come often. How are things going with you?” With¬ 
out awaiting an answer he advanced to Radkin. “You, sir, 
are Mr. Radkin. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. 
Russia is fortunate in having you gentlemen visit her.” Re¬ 
linquishing Radkin’s hand, he turned with simulated severity 
to Lieutenant Alexei, who stood stiffly by the piano-bench. 
“And you, sir,” he shouted as though on the parade-ground, 
“if you must stand at attention when I enter a room in my own 
house during a social evening, for God’s sake do it correctly. 
Your little finger, sir, it should be at the stripe of your 
breeches-” 

“Papa,” broke in Anna, “behave, or I shall take you back 
to your study.” 

The laughter and conversation resumed. 

A servant entered with a tray bearing the appetiser—tiny 
glasses of vodka and miniature caviare sandwiches. The 
glasses were passed round, even Anna taking hers with all 
the assurance and dignity of a woman grown—as a woman 
grown of eighteen should—and all looked to the General 
in the midst of their circle for a word. 

He gestured with his glass to Radkin and David, lifted it 
high and said: “To our business friends of America. May 
their soldiers follow and put an end to this business of war.” 

Everyone drank: the General because he thought he had 
made a rather neat phrase and should cap it properly; Radkin 
because, despite his thoughts concerning the propriety of the 
toast, he seemed willing to do anything to avoid attracting 
attention to himself; David, because Natalie seemed to have 
raised her glass specifically to his and because the fascinating 
turn of her white throat prompted unconscious imitation; 


44 WINE OF FURY 

Anna, braving the bite of the fiery liquid, which she did not 
like, because Alexei was watching her; the Princess because, 
as the hostess, she could do nothing else. 

“I drink it,” said Natalie, taking David’s offered arm and 
joining the small procession which filed, chatting, to the 
dining-room, “but I hope it won’t ever come true.” 

“And why, my dear?” inquired the General over his 
shoulder. “Someone will have to finish it. The Russian 
armies haven’t yet and will not recover from their losses and 
set-backs of last year for a long time, and the English and 
the French are to be gradually worn down. It’s either 
American help or defeat.” 

“I know,” his daughter replied slowly, “that may be true; 
but I hate to think of it. Too many of Russia’s best haven’t 
come back. We ought to spare our friends that, if we 
possibly can.” 

“My daughter,” resumed the General, after he had eased 
his ponderous body into the arm-chair provided for him at 
the head of the table and the serving of the meal had begun, 
“still persists in seeing only the sentimental side of war. She 
thinks only of the destruction and the suffering. None of us 
likes that, least of all those who inflict and undergo it. But 
there is the other side of it—the sacrifice for patriotism. 
Patriotism is a sublime emotion. A man who dies for it 
dies worthily. Consider the thousands who die thus worthily 
in warfare who would otherwise die miserably—by drinking 
themselves to death, or by being drowned in a mud-hole, or 
kicked by a horse. Death in battle is a fitting end to life. 
It’s the one I myself hope for. I have never feared it. At 
Port Arthur it was the feeling that sustained me. In this war 
it has come about that a political clique holds me here in the 
War Office in Petrograd, prevents me from going with troops 
to the front. But this clique cannot hold out always. Its 
power will weaken and I shall command my troops in the 
line. If after taking every honourable precaution I am killed 
there, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I shall die a 
glorious death. I want to die in action; not supine in bed 


45 


THE AWAKENING 

like a woman!” Having finished, the General took a savage 
bite of a piece of bread, a gulp of wine from one of the 
glasses before him, and looked triumphantly about the table 
as though the question was settled. 

The even voice of Rudkin broke the silence. “You may be 
right, General, he said, but it seems to me that each man 
should be permitted a choice in that matter. As it is now 
in Russia, his country is involved in wars of the cause of which 
he knows nothing beyond what those who started it tell him; 
and he, in the name of the patriotism you mentioned, is taken 
at the scruff of the neck by the iron fist of Conscription and 
shoved into the fight, while those who started it sit safely 
at home and are annoyed at the frequency of Cabinet meet¬ 
ings.” 

“I suppose the intimation of your remarks,” shouted the 
General in such loud tones that his wife leaned over to pat 
him on the arm, saying, “My dear, my dear, don’t shout so; 
Mr. Radkin is here with us and not across the river,” much 
to everyone’s evident amusement. 

“I suppose the intimation is,” repeated the General, “that 
each man should have a vote for a legislative executive as 
he has in your America, instead of only for a critic of govern¬ 
ment action sitting in the Duma as he has here—that Russia 
should be a republic instead of an empire? Well, it is im¬ 
possible. Two-thirds of the Russians are too ignorant to 
vote. And since when have republics had any claim to virtue 
on the score of war avoided? Look at France, from kingdom 
to republic, republic to empire, empire to commune, commune 
to republic—a bloody revolution with nearly every change and 
a war or two mixed in. Look at your South American re¬ 
publics—a revolution at every election and a war or a threat 
of one nearly every year. And look at your own United States 
—a war of revolution to become a republic, the war of 1812 
with Great Britain, the war of 1848 with Mexico, wars with 
the Indians, the Civil War, the war of 1898 with Spain, and 
now the Mexican Punitive expedition which doesn’t punish.” 

“You make your case in a negative way,” said Radkin. 


46 WINE OF FURY 

“Your argument is founded upon sand. You said that the 
majority of Russians, the peasants, are too ignorant to be 
trusted with a vote. Why is the peasant too ignorant? Be¬ 
cause he has never had the opportunity to learn. Those who 
are educated have never provided schools for him. They 
have had hundreds of years, absolute power and unlimited 
wealth, and yet they have not provided education enough 
so that the peasant can be trusted with a vote. Don’t you 
think that is a shameful record of omission? Don’t you think 
the peasant should be given a chance?” 

“I don’t think he wants it. He is lazy. He doesn’t like 
work. He avoids it whenever possible. I have an estate in 
central Russia. Many peasants live on the land. They have 
only to work it. They much prefer to lie around drunk. 
There are schools in the village which they can attend. They 
do everything in their power to avoid it. They lie, steal and 
smash up my new agricultural instruments. They do not 
want a chance. They don’t want anything. They’d rather 
be as they are.” 

“I don’t agree with you, father,” broke in Natalie. “There 
is something they want. They want the land and you won’t 
give it to them.” 

“That’s a body blow to your father’s argument, Miss 
Natalie,” said Radkin. “It’s the crux of the whole matter. 
The peasants want the land. You, General, won’t give it to 
them. The only way to settle the thing amicably is by ballot. 
You say they’re too ignorant to have that and yet you have 
taken only half-hearted steps to educate them. You leave 
them, therefore, only one other method of getting what they 
want. Do you see what it is?” 

“Revolution, I suppose you mean,” acquiesced the General. 
“It’s possible, but improbable. For success in that you must 
have force. Force in Russia is the army. You couldn’t have 
a revolution unless the army went over to the side of the 
revolutionists. And the Russian army is loyal to the Tsar. It 
is . . . it’s magnificent! Do you realise what it has done? It 
has saved Europe, yes, sir, in the first six months of the war, 


THE AWAKENING 47 

saved Europe. At terrible cost. Two million casualties, and 
inadequately supplied and equipped, sometimes deliberately 
betrayed. Yet it is still loyal. It is magnificent.” He 
paused and looked about the table as though daring anyone 
to challenge the statement. There was no challenge. He 
went on as though the argument was settled: “No, there’s 
but a small chance of it turning revolutionary. As for 
revolutions and talk of them, you are a stranger here, and 
at my house you are quite safe in the expression of your 
views. We welcome such frank discussion. But in other 
places it is not so; you will certainly be overheard. You 
would be arrested. They would make much trouble for you. 
So it’s best to avoid speaking of it.” 

“They could do that?” queried Radkin innocently, looking 
round the table. “How interesting, and . . . how . . . des¬ 
potic. But of course I was only talking for the sake of argu¬ 
ment. I know little of Russian affairs and have given the 
matter but casual thought. Thank you for your advice. I 
must admit, however, that you amaze me.” 

“Yes,” said the General, “it is amazing that in so great an 
empire as Russia there should be so little political tolerance. 
Tolerance in anything else . . . the most in the world, but in 
politics, none . . . absolutely. Perhaps it is as well. There 
are so many extremists in the country that to give them ex¬ 
pression would only lead to chaos. Better stick to what we 
have than permit that. As a matter of fact, I have with my 
own ears heard but one other man in all Russia speak as you 
have just spoken, Mr. Radkin. It was many years ago in 
Saratoff at the trial of a young working man . . . very 
young . . . eighteen, I think. I was assigned to temporary 
duty in Saratoff at the time and I went to the trial one day 
more out of curiosity than anything else. This boy spoke 
as you did. He had written circulars containing revolution¬ 
ary sentiments to be thrown from the galleries of theatres. 
He was sentenced to Siberia for life. I was much interested. 

I remember that I obtained the documents of the case later 
and reviewed it. I-” He stopped short. He stared at 


48 WINE OF FURY 

Radkin, leaning slightly forward in his chair to do so. The 
wrinkled forehead and the fixity of his glance were indicative 
of searching thought. Evidently thought without success also, 
if the slow moving of his great head from side to side meant 
anything. The Princess’ high-pitched voice broke the silence. 

“What is it, Mr. Rand? Something else you want? More 
wine? The white or the red? No?” 

David gave a slight start as he recalled his attention from 
Radkin. He had been watching closely, vaguely aware that 
Natalie did likewise, except that she alternated her eager looks 
between Radkin and her father all during the narration of the 
story of the young man in Saratoff. He had searched for 
any visual sign of effect it might have had. His own thoughts 
raced in question. “What does all this mean? Who was 
the young man in Saratoff? Is it possible that Natalie thinks 
Radkin could have been that man?” 

Radkin, however, gave not the slightest sign of perturbation. 
He continued eating and listening attentively, taking an 
occasional sip of wine. There had not been a quiver of his 
hand as he raised his glass to his lips. In fact, as the General 
mentioned the unfortunate young man he had lifted a wine¬ 
glass, just refilled to the very brim, without spilling a drop 
of the purple liquid. “He either has no idea of what they 
are talking about or else he has nerves of piano wire,” thought 
David. He looked again at the General, who was evidently 
thinking hard, but unable to put thought into words. “He 
seemed to recognise the man,” thought David. “I wonder 
if it was enough to convince Natalie. That he should dare 
deceive me!” He became aware of the awkward silence. It 
had lasted for seconds that seemed minutes now. He wanted 
to shout. 

“Mother,” broke in Anna’s high, bird-like voice, “the skat¬ 
ing rink is arranged on the Fontanka now and we are going 
to have a skating-party—the Mirkoff girls, Eugini Petrovitch, 
Ivan Storlin, Alexei and I, and Madam Popoff for chaperon. 
Alexei has it all arranged. I may go, mayn’t I? Please?” 


THE AWAKENING 49 

The nature of the question, irrelevant to any of the evening’s 
discussion, made it clear that Anna had heard none of it. But 
who would, seated beside one so nice as Alexei Nikolaievitch; 
with him alone to talk to in whispers lest the elders and these 
stiff Americans hear; and with an occasional capture of her 
white hand in his muscular fingers? 

“I shall see, my dear, when the time comes,” replied the 
Princess. “It’s early yet to talk about it. And this is hardly 
the place to ask such questions. But I shall see. There, 
there,” she tried to defend herself against the kisses which 
the demonstrative Anna, who had slipped round to her side, 
pressed upon her face and neck, exclaiming: “Thank you, 
thank you! I knew you would. Alosha will bring me back 
early; won’t you, Alosha?” 

“Yes, indeed,” assented Alexei, trying to replace his 
enthusiasm and pleasure with the gravity he felt an officer 
of his Majesty’s army should have. “I promise you we shall 
be home early.” 

David smiled at Anna as she scampered back to her chair 
beside the young lieutenant, and engaged the General in a 
discussion of the formalities of getting charters signed. 

The evening passed quickly—easy, happy hours of good 
food, good wine and good friends. Radkin left shortly after 
dinner, saying that he had work to do at home. David, his 
curiosity considerably aroused, remained to hear what Natalie 
had learned. Gradually the others withdrew, the General to 
his study, the Princess to her room, and Anna and Alexei to 
a quiet corner, leaving him with Natalie. “I am right,” she 
said as soon as they were alone. “He is not really Radkin. 
He has assumed the name somehow and come here . . . per¬ 
haps on a Mr. Radkin’s passport. This man was the man 
in Saratoff. Did you see father trying to recall his face? It 
was enough.” 

“Yes; but who is he? What is he?” interrupted David 
excitedly. 

“I can’t tell you his real name,” Natalie replied; “I can’t 


50 WINE OF FURY 

tell you anything more unless you promise not, under any 
circumstances, to mention it to the police. Will you promise 
that you won’t do that?” 

“I promise.” 

“Very well. He is a famous leader of the revolutionists. 
He escaped from Siberia and nothing was heard of him for 
many years. I know that it is he. In an old portfolio in 
father’s desk are some records of the trial. He never returned 
them to the files. There are two pictures of the accused. 
They led me to recognise this man. When you flung open the 
door that day I caught two views of him, two views as clear 
and distinct as photographs. They made me think of the 
photographs. I hid them away after I first saw Radkin. I 
sympathise with him personally, but here, as he is, he is 
dangerous to many Russians. Also to you and your work. 
He has come here under guise of one of your assistants in 
order to carry on his duties as a revolutionist. If the police 
find out there will be much trouble. You will suffer too. 
Whatever happens, this must not reach the police. That is 
imperative. I have thought it all over. You must talk with 
this man. Tell him that he is not deceiving you, and propose 
to him that he cease at once his revolutionary activities, in 
return for which you will not report him to the police, but 
will allow him to work on with you until a reasonable time 
after you have begun operations, when you will accept his 
resignation. Then he can do as he pleases. Doesn’t that 
sound the logical thing to do?” 

She had talked so rapidly, she had said so much that was 
of tremendous importance to him that David could not answer. 
His mind struggled with it. He must have time to consider. 
He could think only of simple things. He thanked her. He 
said good-bye. And he set out to walk to his apartment. 

For a long time as he plodded on his way his mind was a 
chaos of thoughts. It all seemed bizarre. Like a ten-penny 
thriller. Yet it must be true. Natalie was convinced of it; 
her sensitive understanding had no doubt. But what to do? 
Follow the plan she suggested? He debated scheme after 


THE AWAKENING 51 

scheme, one course of action after another, always returning 
to the one she had outlined. He would have liked to denounce 
the impostor to the police, but that would not do, because the 
police would suspect him and his institution as well. His 
whole project in this country would become involved in it. 
Her plan seemed the most practical. He thought the matter 
out again and again. 

His thoughts marshalled all his faculties to their task. 
And yet what was this vague impression that made him 
shudder as he reached his door—an impression of things 
seen but not noted in his walk across the sleeping city? The 
sky of curdled clouds hurrying nowhere out of nowhere, now 
and then gleaming with pale light as they thinned before the 
cold moon; a wild wind moaning up the river, blowing far 
and wide the loose snow on its dead-white surface and 
whistling derision in the stark branches of the trees; a heavy 
peasant dragging a laden sledge painfully over the shiny 
cobbles; the crunch of flying ice-particles as a luxurious motor 
blazing with lights and heavy with ease swept past—what 
strange psychological alchemy brought out from all this and 
his hurtling thoughts the vague uneasiness, the feeling of 
surging unrest? 


IX 

These days passed swiftly for David. Natalie’s discovery 
concerning Radkin gave him something out of the ordinary to 
think about. He did not hurry. He considered every angle of 
the situation, and finally resolved that only the solution her 
intuitive mind had hit upon instantly was satisfactory. He 
decided to discuss the matter with Radkin as quietly as 
possible. It would not do to make excitement or ill-feeling 
over it. 

Radkin came to the office in response to his summons. 
David stood looking out across the Neva, now a sheer expanse 
of white from shore to shore. He made no explanations. 


52 WINE OF FURY 

“Don’t you think I have a right to know who you really are, 
and what your purpose is in coming here as you have, Mr. 
Radkin?” he asked calmly. 

He had not intended any dramatics, yet he had prepared 
himself for some demonstration on Radkin’s part. He 
watched closely as he finished speaking. 

He did not know the man. Radkin showed not the slightest 
sign of surprise. His gaze wandered from David’s face to 
the snowscape framed in the tall window. For a moment he 
said nothing. “He is made of ice,” thought David. 

Then Radkin spoke casually: “You have,” he said nod¬ 
ding slowly, as though approving to himself a course of action. 
“I’ve known that I must tell you sooner or later. You have 
been the one man in all Russia who must know. Until now 
I haven’t had the courage to begin. This work of yours here 
means so much to you. I have seen that. And I hated to 
do anything that might increase its difficulties.” He paused, 
looking into David’s eyes frankly and calmly. 

“You might have shown your consideration for me by 
refraining from certain activities—and best, perhaps, by not 
coming here at all,” said David ironically. 

Radkin seemed to notice neither his words nor his tone. 

“I shall tell you,” he said; “but by doing so I place myself 
completely in your power. One word from you to the police 
and my life and the lives of many others are as good as ended. 
Perhaps worse than that. I shall be at your mercy.” 

“You are that already,” remarked David. “Wouldn’t it 
be easier to talk sitting down?” and he indicated a chair 
beside his desk, at the same time moving towards his own. 

Radkin did not accept the invitation. He clasped his hands 
behind him, lowered his head and, as though thinking tre¬ 
mendously, walked slowly and abstractedly to the twin of 
the window at which David stood. 

“It would be useless to tell you my real name. You are 
not familiar enough with Russian affairs to understand, and, 
besides, your not knowing it precludes the making of any 
slip which would involve us in serious trouble. Were you 


53 


THE AWAKENING 

even by chance to mention it to the agents of the police you 
would touch a match to the fuse of events which might envelop 
both you and the institution you represent in Russia. I am, 
however, a revolutionist, a leader of one of the oldest societies. 
I am counted by my enemies, the police, as a dangerous man. 
I am convicted, though unjustly, of one terroristic attempt. 
For it I spent twelve years in Siberia. I escaped. I made 
my way to America, where, under my present name, I have 
lived in the comparative peace the Tsar’s agents have allowed 
me. They are stupid in other countries, Mr. Rand; they do 
not have the organisation, and by themselves they are not 
resourceful. Strange things have happened in Russia since 
the beginning of this awful war. The feelings of the people 
are aroused as they have never been before and perhaps as 
they never will be aroused again. Our cause thrives on 
emotional crises such as this. In that of 1905 we nearly won. 
We did not strike quickly or courageously enough, however, 
and we got only a mockery of a Constitution and a monkey- 
house of a Duma, instead of liberty. It became imperative 
for me to come to Petrograd, and as the police have threat¬ 
ened to send me Siberia-ward for life as soon as apprehended, 
you can understand that some subtlety was necessary. I tried 
my hand at many things in the United States. I am not 
stupid, and I therefore learned much. I obtained a position 
in the Head Office of your institution. I did it to learn some¬ 
thing about capital and capitalism from the inside. I learned. 
It has served me well. When I heard of their sending you 
to Petrograd to establish a branch there, I knew the means of 
my returning unharmed had been put into my hands. I 
watched. My friends watched and listened also, and when 
we heard that an assistant was to be sent you, we knew that 
the time had come. My name was proposed. My knowledge 
of Russia and the language got me the position. Thus I came 
to Petrograd unmolested, indeed even assisted by my enemies 
the police, who bowed and scraped to me as one come to 
Russia bearing the name and backed by the power of your 
great house. It is amusing even though it is serious.” 


54 WINE OF FURY 

“Serious, yes,” echoed David, “but amusing! I confess 
I can’t see it as that. It means too much to me and the 
institution I represent. Do you realise how you have en¬ 
dangered its reputation? Its whole project in Russia? 
Our entire chance for success here depends upon our steer¬ 
ing a clear way politically. We cannot have anything to 
do with politics. Money attracts all kinds of influences to 
it and of them all politics is the worst. We fight to keep out 
of it. So far we have succeeded. Now you have stepped in 
from the outside, dragging politics of the worst kind with you, 
presumed to throw yourself on our mercy, and were the truth 
about you to become known to the authorities we should be 
run from the country in disgrace.” 

His voice rose in anger as his thoughts went over the course 
they had taken so many times before. He had resolved, in 
planning this discussion, to he calm, to show none of the per¬ 
turbation he had at first felt. But always as he reviewed the 
possible consequences to his plans of what had happened he 
forgot his resolutions. “What capital our financial enemies 
would make of it!” he exclaimed. “During four months I’ve 
worked night and day against the procrastinating indifference 
of the officials here and I am no nearer to establishing my 
branch than before I came. If this is known I’ll never get the 
consent I still have only a vestige of hope for. Do you see 
this? Can you call it amusing?” He thrust his hands deep 
into his pockets and strode back and forth across the room. 

Radkin watched him without display of emotion. He had 
shown none throughout the discussion. Not even a smile 
when the thought of the police courteously assisting him to 
come to Petrograd had occurred to him as amusing. “Well,” 
he asked finally, “what’s to be done?” It was evident that 
he had somehow, somewhere in his life, lost all capacity for 
apprehension, for fear; that he was solely interested in events 
and action. 

The matter-of-fact tone of his voice commanded David’s 
attention. He stopped in his pacing, and after a search of 


THE AWAKENING 55 

Radkin’s face said: “Yes, you’re right. There’s no use 
getting worked up over it. It’s done.” 

It began to dawn upon him how sincere Radkin had been 
throughout the discussion. How in this matter which con¬ 
cerned his life he had talked as though it was something im¬ 
personal to him. And the contrast with the annoyance and 
petty irony he himself had shown brought David a pang of re¬ 
gret. 

“I have come to the conclusion,” he resumed, “that there 
is only one thing to do. Things shall go on as they are for 
a while. You shall continue to be Peter Radkin, my American 
assistant. Your work so far shows that you can be of use 
to me. Only you must not see those men we found you with 
the other day. You must leave them and your secret work 
entirely alone. This for a reasonable time. Then you can 
resign ... to take another position, if you will. I shall 
accept your resignation and you shall withdraw from all con¬ 
nection with me and this institution. After that you can do as 
you please. I shall keep what I know to myself. Is that 
fair? Is that reasonable?” 

“Yes,” said Radkin, “and thank you. I agree to that.” 
He extended his hand. David pressed it, saying: “Thank 
you for your frankness, and please excuse the exhibition of 
my annoyance of a few moments ago. The work ahead of 
me is my heart and soul, and nothing, nothing must interfere 
with it. I feel so strongly on the subject that I admit my 
resentment at your action almost led me to denounce you to 
the police. I might say that it was only the intervention on 
your behalf of the young lady you met a few evenings ago, 
Natalia Dukharina, which prevented that.” 

“In case I do not see her again, thank her for me, please. 
I admire the family greatly. I understand your feelings too. 
I wish I could make you understand as clearly what the 
task I’ve undertaken means to me.” 

There was a silence during which both seemed to be think¬ 
ing. They were standing at the same window now, and both 


56 WINE OF FURY 

looked off into the haze, which softened the crude lines of 
the distant part of the city across the river. Below them 
the music of a band sounded with increasing volume in an 
eerie dirge, and round the corner came a procession, evidently 
a final tribute to a ranking officer of the army. 

The white and silver hearse bearing the coffin banked with 
flowers rolled along like a draped and glittering car of Jugger¬ 
naut; flanked, preceded and followed by the shimmering, be¬ 
jewelled and bannered pageantry of the Church and a mourn¬ 
ing band and guard of honour with bayonets bristling against 
the leaden sky like the limbs of a dead forest—a pantomime 
of trumped-up, barbaric pomp. 

As the procession moved on the passers-by uncovered and 
bowed in respectful tribute. 

At a short interval came a second procession. It was not 
much, only a peasant and his wife, rags fluttering in the 
breeze, striding down the middle of the street, bearing between 
them a tiny coffin—hardly more than a box with pitiful tinsel 
attempts at decoration—unheeded, going grimly to dispose 
of it. 

“There, my friend,” ejaculated Radkin with a vehemence 
that fairly shot the words through his teeth, “you have Russia. 
Aristocrat and peasant. Do you realise that the majority of 
people in Russia are like those two peasants? One hundred 
and fifty millions out of the one hundred and eighty millions 
in the empire. They are simple, lovable, patient. They 
resent changes. They wish to live and let live. In spite of 
their growing resentment with things as they are, they would 
put up with them if the land question were settled. They are, 
oh! so difficult to arouse to action. They are hypnotised by 
clever talk. Like music to animals, it soothes them. They 
listen for hours. They themselves talk for hours. Their 
talk is the technical indulgence of artists which has no spur 
to action in it. If one is bent upon inciting them to action 
in normal times, one is doomed to despair. We cannot help 
loving them, nor can we help despairing of them. You know 
my purpose in coming here. I tell you that even I would 


THE AWAKENING 57 

give up hoping for them were it not for one thing—the war. 
The peasants are tremendously concerned in it. They fight 
it. They do not like it. Remember, to them there is no 
love of country—no patriotism. They have not been taught 
that. There is little reason why they should be patriotic. 
They have been miserable. They fight only for the Little 
Father. They are betrayed by their officers and their Govern¬ 
ment officials. They are becoming tired of that. If the war 
keeps on long enough they will become so tired of it that 
they will quit or brush aside the Tsar. That is our chance— 
to work among the soldiers and increase their dislike of fight¬ 
ing. We are doing it as much as possible wherever possible. 

“But we are few. And what happens to us when caught 
. . . those of us who turn our protests into action? What 
happened to me? Five years in a hard-labour prison and 
seven more of a life sentence in a general Siberian prison be¬ 
fore I escaped and after an indescribable experience made my 
way eventually to America. I lived there until my coming here 
—to fight the old enemy on the old ground. I wonder if you 
have any conception of the changes in a man’s mind during 
such a term of imprisonment? I think not. At first he 
usually feels himself unjustly treated—even if guilty. The 
circumstances which led to his committing the crime seem to 
him important enough to have had some effect towards lighten¬ 
ing his sentence. They do not. He therefore feels that the 
world will owe him something when he is freed. When this 
time comes, or if he escapes, he awaits for the world to pay 
him. It does not. It is utterly indifferent to him and the 
injustice done. It doesn’t give a damn. Then comes the 
dangerous period. He starts out to collect by force. He 
usually lands in jail again. Or he does collect and believes 
it to be the only way. He is hardened. The softer, humanis¬ 
ing elements in him have been ground out. That is the 
process. I have been through it all. Ten years of 
injustice, and twelve of indifference mixed with fear, have 
done their work, have formed and hardened a purpose in my 
mind which is powerful enough to bring me back here, to 


58 WINE OF FURY 

overwhelm any sentiment, any emotion that may block my 
way. I admit I am a dangerous man—to some people. Good- 
day, Mr. Rand.” 


X 

The night of the skating-party on the Fontanka Rink 
finally came. Anna had begun to think it never would. 
In spite of her efforts to appear unconcerned, she betrayed 
that it was something of an event in her young life by her 
early preparations, her impatient running here and there 
about the house after her fur gloves and her skating-boots, 
and her numerous entreaties to sister Natalie to help her with 
her clothes. 

An excursion into the sanctum of the General’s study after 
the lost skates eventually routed that worthy from his papers 
for five precious minutes. He surprised his wife and elder 
daughter by appearing suddenly in the broad doorway of the 
library. What’s all this rumpus?” he demanded in his usual 
meaningless growl. 

The Princess looked at him with her tired smile and replied: 
“It’s to-night that she goes skating on the Fontanka Rink with 
Alexei Nikolaievitch. It’s the first time.” 

“So that’s it!” exclaimed the General with a fierce knitting 
together of his startled eyebrows. “She’s going with that 
young whipper-snapper! The first thing you know, they’ll 
be married and we’ll lose our little one. She ought not 
to go.” 

“I’m quite sure, my dear,” replied the Princess in the 
saccharine tones she habitually used, “that it will not be so. 
They are quite too young. It will all pass off.” 

“On the contrary, it may grow serious,” countered her 
husband. “Aneta’s a loving little girl and once she forms 
a liking you know how difficult it is to make her give up. 
Besides, I’d hate to have that young dandy in the family. He’s 
too good-looking. He hasn’t backbone enough. First he’s 


THE AWAKENING 59 

this way and then he’s that. He’s a conceited little pup, 
too.” 

Here the Princess came to Alexei’s defence. “Alexei Nikol- 
aievitch is a nice boy,” she said. “He has a great many 
friends. He is one of the most popular young officers in 
town. Don’t worry though, Aneta is not thinking of marriage. 
She’s haying too good a time. Leave them alone and in a 
year they’ll be no more than casual acquaintances. Besides, 
to-night the whole party will be here.” 

“Humph!” snorted the General, the clumsy craft of his 
dogmatism beginning to founder on the shoal of this feminine 
resistance. “Anyway, I don’t like it. They should be for¬ 
bidden to see each other.” With this he turned down the 
hallway in full retreat. Safe within the monastic walls of 
his study he closed the door and thereafter that evening noth¬ 
ing more was heard from him save a great rustling of papers 
and now and then an outraged squeak from his swivel-chair. 

The restless movement of horses, the jingle of harness, voices 
and laughter sounded outside. Far back in the house a bell 
rang, and the maid moved quietly to the entrance. She opened 
the door and disclosed Alexei smiling and trim, his cap in 
his gloved hand. 

“Good-night,” sang Anna as she stepped out into the foyer, 
the wooden heels of her small fur-topped over-boots clicking 
on the marble floor. 

“Good-night,” wished the Princess, with a smile. “Enjoy 
yourselves. We shall expect you back before eleven.” 

Outside, they returned the cheerful greetings of the others 
waiting in the two sleighs, their faces shining in the light of 
the entry. Alexei tucked the robe about Anna’s feet, slung 
the loop in one of its corners about the hook at the rear of 
the boxlike seat and stepped in beside her. As they started 
off at an easy pace he shouted to all three drivers: “To the 
Fontanka Rink, and five roubles to the first one there.” 

The dash of the horse threw him back into the seat, where 
he fastened the other corner of the robe and swung his arm 
round Anna’s back to grip the hand-rail. He lowered his 


60 WINE OF FURY 

head to hers and chuckled in derision as they passed the first 

sleigh. 

He liked this racing, did Alexei, especially when Anna was 
with him. She had to cling to him to keep from falling out. 

Down the short side-street they went, closely grouped, round 
the turn and out on the Kamenno-Ostroffski Prospekt, where 
its broad white surface, leading straight to the Troitski Bridge, 
lured them to further speed. They bowed over before the 
pelting snow from the horses’ hoofs, now clearly outlined as 
they passed a street light, now but vague fleeting shapes as 
they entered a stretch of dimness, but laughing and shrieking 
in delight or simulated fear as first one sleigh and then another 
gained the lead according to the manceuvrings of the slower 
traffic which pulsed up and down the Prospekt. At one 
crossway the policeman, either thinking the on-coming horse 
and sleigh to be a runaway, or disapproving of the violation 
of the traffic rules covering reckless driving, shouted and 
gesticulated wildly, drew his sabre, flourished it in the light 
and blew his whistle frantically in an effort to signify his 
protest, but stepped hastily and ungracefully aside, an 
awkwardly leaping figure in bemedalled uniform, as the 
vehicle rushed by in derision of his efforts. The guard at 
the next corner saved himself this activity, paid no heed to the 
whistling of his co-worker up the street, but smiled at the 
happy faces shooting past in the swirls of snow. 

“Aha, a race. They are happy—let them go,” he thought, 
and looked after them as they disappeared in the darkness. 
Out and up the gentle curve of the Troitski Bridge they flew, 
between the double row of dimmed lights, where other drivers 
turned to watch. Off the bridge and across the square, with 
drivers urging the horses to more speed, they went, down the 
Millionaya, and from that into the maze of side-streets and 
canals. They emerged and turned into the Nevsky, brilliant 
in spite of its subdued street lamps, and gay with pedestrians, 
sleighs, automobiles and trams. Here the separate sleighs 
became indistinguishable in the shifting maze of traffic and 
the excitement of the passengers increased with the possibility 


THEAWAKENING 61 

of one being held up and another slipping by. Alexei urged 
his driver on with promises of extra roubles for victory, 
and his sleigh finally swept in a swishing arc round the turn 
at the Fontanka Bridge, a winner by nearly half a block. 

Without delay they descended to the enclosed rink under 
the lights and made their way through the skaters to a barge 
which was fitted up as offices, checking-room, tea-house and 
buffet. 

They gathered in a corner of the cafe and restroom, where 
the young men fastened on the girls’ skates and adjusted their 
own. There were the Mirkoff sisters, twins of rather hard, 
cultivated beauty, with their escorts Eugini Petrovitch and 
Ivan Storlin—both friends of Alexei’s. Ivan’s married 
sister, Madame Popoff, chaperon of the party, a stout and 
magnificent woman in an enormous fur coat, did not skate, 
thereby sentencing herself to walk up and down the low veran¬ 
dah at the ice’s edge, with occasional visits to the cafe for 
warmth and rest. 

Free of their heavy outer wraps, the cold night air stirred 
them to action as they clumped awkwardly to the verandah. 
The band began a lively tune and the Mirkoff girls, who were 
excellent skaters, glided away with their escorts. Alexei 
crossed his hands with Anna’s and they too started off, swaying 
in rhythm to the music. Round and round the edge they 
went, inside the track where the speed skaters dashed and 
veered madly in their circuitous course. Anna slipped and 
stumbled a bit, this being her first attempt of the year, but 
as the evening wore on she regained her accustomed easy 
stride and grace. When the music stopped they joined the 
group about the fancy skaters, who twisted and pivoted in 
their efforts, accepted good-natured challenges from each 
other, and smiled at the signs of appreciation from the im¬ 
promptu audience. 

As the music sounded again they were off once more. They 
said very little. For Anna it was enough to be there with 
Alexei. Through her stiffened arms she felt his strength 
guiding her and she followed unreservedly. Once or twice 


62 WINE OF FURY 

his indecision brought them into a mix-up with another 
couple; she followed into these also and laughed and joked 
with him at the outcome. 

But somehow she found it difficult to laugh. Now and then 
the beam of a searchlight swept across the heavens. The city’s 
defenders were on the alert for the enemy without. Alexei 
was one of those defenders. She closed her eyes at the thought 
that he might be called away. She glanced at him shyly as 
he guided her, intent upon the way and the people therein. He 
was trying to raise a moustache; so far without success. The 
soft down on his lip refused to thicken. She recalled the 
discussion of him that the first sign of this attempt had aroused. 
“Alexei should not wear a moustache,” someone had said. 
“His chin is weak enough as it is without emphasising it in 
his profile with a moustache.” “It is not weak,” she 
thought, glancing at him again; “simply it is not brutal and 
square like one of those dogs the English have. There are 
few so handsome as he.” A survey of the rink confirmed her 
thought, and she admired again the clean outline of his pro¬ 
file, the generous fullness of his lips and the high colour of 
his cheeks, almost livid with pulsing health. 

She trembled a bit at the thought that he might be called 
away. To the front, perhaps. What would she do without 
him? The thoughts were not new. He had served at the 
front once. The time of his absence had seemed an age for 
her. She had thought of him by day and night—or rather 
by that part of night her healthy young body let her lie 
awake. She wondered what she would do if he were killed. 
Kill herself, perhaps. But the good God would not allow 
him to be killed. She knew that. It was the answer to her 
prayers. Wounded, perhaps, but nothing worse. She im¬ 
agined him in a hospital, pale and bandaged, in a white bed, 
and herself serenely gentle in a nurse’s uniform, caring for 
him. The romance of it! The wound would be almost worth 
it, she had thought, if it were only a slight wound. Not an 
arm or a leg, because that would make it awkward to be with 


THE AWAKENING 63 

him, but a gash on his forehead, perhaps. The scar would 
make him all the more handsome. 

He had not been wounded. He had come back quite well, 
to study some technicality or other; and the joy of being with 
him again was not to he repressed. Except occasionally, 
when after days of hearing nothing of him she learned through 
friends of his being seen at So-and-so’s with a party of officers 
and such girls as young officers seemed to select when intox¬ 
icated and on merriment bent. Then she had cried in her 
disappointment and resolved never to see him again. She 
looked at herself in the mirror to discover what lines had 
appeared after this sorrow, which changed her, she liked to 
think, from a girl to a woman. This, only to forgive him 
when he had come back without a word and resumed as 
though nothing had happened. Well, perhaps there had been 
nothing at all. The report may have been wrong. He was the 
same Alexei. The one she loved. The reaction was more 
violent than the original feeling for him. Other men she 
saw on the streets did not walk so straight as Alexei, she 
thought. The escorts of other ladies were not so handsome 
as Alexei. The keen winds from the Neva could not be so keen 
as the talk of Alexei. The snow itself was not brighter than 
the smile of Alexei. 

“You are tired.” His voice sounded in her ear and brought 
her thoughts back to the present. “Come,” he continued, 
“let’s go inside and have some tea, and rest.” She had not 
noticed, in the almost dream-existence caused by the keen 
air and her reverie, that she had stumbled during the last 
few rounds of the rink, as her ankles, unaccustomed to the 
strain, grew weak. 

They thumped into the buffet and sat down at a corner 
table. Madame Popoff signalled the others with her flashing 
smile and they all gathered about the table, indulging in the 
usual by-play of words over the steaming glasses of tea. The 
Mirkoff girls and Madame Popoff listened intensely to young 
Storlin. He spoke in subdued tones, leaning towards the 


64 WINE OF FURY 

centre to prevent others from hearing: “The Grand Duke 
Nicholas is the greatest strategist in Europe. No less an 
authority than Hindenberg himself has said so. And his re¬ 
moval from command of our armies is a disaster, I tell you.” 
He slapped his palm down on the table so that the dishes and 
silver rattled. 

“But you know the reason for it, don’t you?” queried 
Alexei soberly. 

“Yes, everyone does,” exclaimed Storlin interrupting. “It’s 
that Rasputin . . . he’s-” 

Madame Popoff stopped him. “Let’s not mention that 
creature,” she said incisively. A silence which bade fair to 
be long followed her remark, until Alexei took up the 
conversation. 

“No, no, not at all,” he said in a low voice. “The Grand 
Duke was removed because the Tsar wished to win the war 
in the quickest possible fashion. He could do that by re¬ 
moving the Grand Duke and appointing himself as Com- 
mander-in-Chief of the Russian Armies. Hindenberg would 
die laughing-” 

If Hindenberg did not, it seemed as though some of the 
others would, particularly the Mirkoff girls, who risked their 
hard, artificial beauty in a laugh which disclosed their large 
teeth, hitherto carefully concealed. 

“You should be ashamed of yourself, talking of your Tsar 
in that way,” admonished Madame Popoff, shaking her head 
at Alexei, but inwardly thankful that he had turned the con¬ 
versation from an unpleasant vein. “But what are young 
people coming to,” she thought, “speaking boldly out in pub¬ 
lic like that?” 

The tea drunk, and their feet warmed by thumping them, 
skates and all, upon the floor, they scrambled out to the gay 
crowd. Madame Popoff, from her post on the verandah, 
watched as they appeared and vanished on their courses. 
She stared so long that the conglomerant colours, the vari¬ 
ances of light and shade on the shifting mass of faces, the 
chance arrangement into groups which quickly disintegrated 


THE AWAKENING 65 

only to form new figures—all appeared to her like a huge 
kaleidoscope of youth into which she was peeping from the 
far-away pinnacle of her middle age. “Will they never 
stop? she thought. She began to plan to stop them and 
go home. She was not clever and the’ruses at her disposal 
were clumsy. 

Alexei and Anna approached. They sank to the floor of 
the verandah at her feet. She stared at them. 

“Tired?” she queried, as Anna looked up at her. 

“Yes,” admitted Anna. “It’s my first time in a year.” 

Madame Popoff saw her opening and sprang to it. Isn’t it 
about time to be leaving?” 

“Not yet,” cut in Alexei. “It’s too early. We couldn’t 
go this early. We usually stay at least an hour more, some¬ 
times two.” Madame’s spirits sank under the burden of his 
enthusiasm. “But,” he continued, “I’ve an idea. The girls 
are tired, and I know they’ll go if you’ll let us stop in at 
Donon’s—wait a minute, let me finish—if you’ll let us stop 
in at Donon’s on the way home, just to see what’s going on. 
We can have a little something to eat, listen to the music, and 
then go home early.” 

“Hm-m-m,” said Madame. “I don’t know what the girls’ 
mothers would say.” 

“Say!” exclaimed Alexei, “why should they say anything? 
Donon’s is one of the three finest restaurants in the city. It’s 
perfectly all right for them to go there.” 

“What would the Princess say, Aneta?” asked Madame in 
a musing tone. 

“I don’t think she’d mind,” replied Anna, all excitement 
at the prospect of going to the famous restaurant. 

“I don’t think we’d better go,” decided Madame. “I 
haven’t the permission of the girls’ mothers-” 

“Well,” interrupted Alexei, digging the point of one skate 
into the ice and sending a shower of chips flying over the 
verandah, “it’s either that or two hours more here.” As he 
spoke he pretended to look away with a fine air of indiffer¬ 
ence, but he could not miss the expression of chagrin which 



66 WINE OF FURY 

swept over Madame’s broad face. She was just about to put 
her scoldings into words when he bowed low before her with 
a flourish of his cap and, sinking to one knee, said in a mock 
appeal: “Hear the petition of your lowly subjects. Smile 
upon us and give us your gracious consent to stop for a few 
minutes at Donon’s.” He remained kneeling, with bowed 
head. 

“Alexei Nikolaievitch,” she laughed, “you are impossi¬ 
ble. . . . Come, get them all and we’ll see. We’ll stop in at 
Donon’s . . . but not more than one little half-hour.” 

He was up and off in a flash to find the others, whirling 
and circling through the crowd of skaters. Soon he brought 
them together, and after a few minutes inside for the removal 
of skates and the adjustment of clothes and wraps they were 
bundled into isvotschiks and racing down the Nevsky. Not 
long after, they turned down the street alongside the canal 
where Donon’s holds itself discreetly back, without even the 
ostentation of a sign to distinguish it from its fellow- 
buildings; and a few moments brought them through the 
arched entrance into the courtyard. In the bright foyer of 
the restaurant the doorman and the head waiter greeted 
Alexei with smiles and deep bows. 

A waiter led them to a table in a comer of the main dining¬ 
room away from the orchestra. It commanded a good 
view of the entire place, including even the closed windows 
of the private rooms at one side and above. Seeing this, 
Alexei wished a place on the other side, but there was nothing 
by way of change that could be done. The evening was on. 
The other tables were either reserved or already occupied. 

The orchestra was in the midst of a waltz. Waiters has¬ 
tened about the room noiselessly over the soft carpet, and 
from the tables, gleaming with white napery, silver and glass, 
arose the countless sounds of tinkling china, conversation 
and laughter. Absorbed in the gaiety of the place, it was 
with a start that Anna became aware of Madame Popoff’s 
questioning repetition: “You have been here before?” 

“No,” replied Anna; “but I hope to again.” 


THE AWAKENING 67 

Evidently Madame’s question had been to make conversation 
because, without allowing time for Anna’s reply, she turned 
her attention to Lieutenant Storlin, who had started what gave 
signs of being a long and involved story. 

From the first private dining-room above the main floor 
and towards the orchestra stage came the noises of occu¬ 
pancy, voices in conversation, the rattle of dishes, the pop 
of a cork, and bits of song rendered in a shrill soprano voice. 
People looked up at the closed and curtained windows which 
opened into the dining-room, leaned to their partners or es¬ 
corts and queried and answered with smiles. “Who is it?” 
asked some in undertones, and the reply was whispered about 
the room: “It’s the old Duke. He’s giving a party. There 
are five or six there, and among them So-and-so from the 
Finance Ministry and Naritza. AJh! Naritza—she is feel¬ 
ing merry to-night. Listen to that laugh. Something will 
happen before the evening is over.” And the diners continued 
their various ways of dining and conversation with one ear 
attuned to the sounds from the private dining-room. 

Anna paid little attention to the whispers and less to the chat¬ 
ter of her companions, who rattled on as merrily as ever, with 
Storlin and young Eugini matching stories about the army and 
the dignitaries they knew. She liked the music, which ran 
the gamut from the lightest of musical comedy tunes to sus¬ 
tained orchestral selections and the tense emotionalism of 
operatic arias. 

The tables were filled with people; men in uniforms bril¬ 
liant with braid and ribbons, and women displaying the lustre 
of their skin and the glitter of their jewels. The aroma of 
perfume and scented cigarette smoke mingled and lulled her 
into a confident reverie of happiness. In the security of the 
immediate present she reflected that it was good to be alive, 
to be a Russian and to share the mighty future of her country, 
and to be loved by Alexei. 

Suddenly she became aware of a silence that had fallen. 
The complete absence of even the subdued noises of the diners 
arrested attention. Were they looking at her? What had 


68 WINE OF FURY 

she done? She raised her eyes hesitantly to see. They stared, 
all of them, at the upper private room which harboured the 
boisterous party. In the silence the noises coming from it 
were distinguishable. Laughter unrestrained, of men and 
women. An hysterical shriek, the sound of a pursuit, accom¬ 
panied by the tumbling over of chairs, the rattle of dishes as 
someone knocked against a table, and a women’s voice repeat¬ 
ing: “Give me that, now you give me that.” One of the 
door-like windows swung open. A masculine arm in a uniform 
sleeve extended itself, flinging out into the expectant silence 
of the dining-room a portion of a woman’s silken undergarment, 
which floated down through the scented smoke to settle on the 
projecting frond of a palm near the orchestra. 

A burst of astounded merriment filled the restaurant. The 
arm was withdrawn. The window banged shut. No more 
was heard from the upper private room. 

Below, the laughter diminished and burst forth again as a 
waiter rescued the intimate garment so blatantly displayed to 
public view. Men and women looked at each other and 
chuckled or laughed explosively. They bent this way and 
that to exchange opinions on the incident. “I told you so,” 
said one. “When the Duke, Naritza and that chap from the 
Finance Ministry get together something is bound to happen.” 
An incredulous “You don’t say so!” arose from one table, 
and between the laughs were whispered the names of the par¬ 
ticipants in the brief farce. “Naritza—she’s the daring one.” 
“How droll the Duke is with his jokes!” “I wonder what 
she wants at the Finance Ministry?” “Hurt her reputation! 
My dear! Impossible! And no one seems to hold it against 
her. People have an envious admiration for audacity, you 
know.” A jovial-looking old gentleman dining alone in a 
corner of the room called to the waiter who had rescued the 
garment. They talked smilingly for a moment; then the jov¬ 
ial gentleman gave the waiter a one-hundred-rouble bill. The 
waiter gave him the garment. He rolled it up carefully and 
put it in his pocket to be taken home and kept and pointed 


THE AWAKENING 69 

to, in the relation of his roue adventures, as the souvenir 
supreme. 

As soon as she recovered from her first gasp of amazement 
at the incident, Madame Popoff rose from the table, her face 
set like a mask of implacable scorn. “Come, children,” said 
she in a tone as sweet and near normal as she could manage 
in an effort to ignore what had just happened, “we must be 
leaving,” and out of the dining-room she strode, with the 
three girls following in the trail of her glittering black gown. 
Alexei waited behind with his two friends to settle the bill, 
meanwhile exchanging quips about the incident. This fin¬ 
ished, they joined their companions in the lobby. 

Outside, and grouped once more in their sleighs, the couples 
bade each other good-night and thanked Madame Popoff for 
her chaperonage. Alexei chuckled at the neatness with which 
he had arranged that she go with her brother. They started 
off on their different ways homeward. 

The sleigh raced along smoothly. They seemed to be alone. 
Silence ruled the streets, save for the sound of their own horse 
and an occasional grunt of encouragement to the animal from 
the driver. It had stopped snowing. Overhead the keen wind 
blew the clouds before it across the fathomless, star-studded 
sky. Now and then the cold moon broke through a hurrying 
cloud and reflected a gleaming, lifeless light from the ice and 
snow surrounding them. They did not speak. 

Alexei was too busy with his thoughts. The incident in the 
cafe had thrown them into anxious confusion. It was amus¬ 
ing, yes. Even in his vexation he smiled. What a story it 
would make to tell at the Officers’ Club. Ah, that Naritza, 
there was a lively one for you! “How I would like to know 
her,” he thought. What an impression it would make at the 
officers’ mess if he could say that he knew her when this thing 
was talked about slyly and laughed over, as it would be! But 
confound it for happening on the one night when Anna 
was their to see! Such things were not for her young eyes. 
Why had he insisted that she go? What could he 


70 WINE OF FURY 

do? Her whiteness somehow made him want to efface 
the incident from his memory; but he could never do that. 
And the thought that it was likewise fixed in hers in 
all its tawdriness almost made him groan in shame. It had 
always been his conclusion that when he married, the woman 
involved must be something of a woman of the world, expe¬ 
rienced, wise, adaptable, ready to go with him anywhere, at¬ 
tempt anything he might attempt, able to view such incidents 
as had happened in the cafe with an amused air of tolerance. 
Yet he loved Anna and he knew this thing had been a shock 
to her. Moreover, she was by no means the experienced 
woman of the world with whom it could be talked about. It 
could not be mentioned. He recalled the look of pain and 
confusion that had struggled on her face. Time would he 
required for it to be forgotten. Meanwhile, was there any¬ 
thing he could do to help? Give her something more im¬ 
portant to think about. Their love, for instance. “When am 
I going to ask her to marry me?” he thought. 

Anna shivered and pulled the robes closer about her. He 
felt her move within the circle of his arm which he had ex¬ 
tended behind her to grip the side-rail and serve as a back 
to the backless seat. They had gone nearly three-quarters of 
the way when she spoke. “It is very cold, Alexei,” she said, 
looking up at him. 

“Are you cold?” he asked quickly. 

“Yes,” she replied simply. 

“Would you like to walk the rest of the way ? It will make 
you warm,” he queried. 

She nodded. 

He signalled to the driver. The sleigh stopped and they 
got out to continue on foot. They walked in silence, briskly, 
he almost lifting her over the rough and snowy places. By 
the time they reached the house the effort of their walk had 
warmed them. Alexei felt his blood tingle as though in its 
rush through his veins it carried with it thousands of tiny de¬ 
mons that pricked him with their spears as they went swirling 
on. 


THE AWAKENING 71 

They stopped to say good-night. “I’m sorry I insisted upon 
your going there to-night, Anna,” he said, “I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t, Alexei,” she interrupted, placing a finger on his 
lips, “don’t speak of it. I—” 

“But I must,” he insisted, taking her by the arms. “I 
wouldn’t have had you see that if I could have prevented. I 

think too much of you. I want you to-” He stopped, 

unaware now of what he intended to say. Thoughts, ideas, 
flashed through his mind at a speed he had not known possible. 
Words to fit them fairly rushed to his lips in expression he 
had not dreamed was in him. “I am going to the front again, 
Aneta,” he said, holding her tightly, “and I want you 
to know that I love you as I love nothing else in all 
this world. I want to hear you say that you love me. Say 
that you will marry me, Aneta, when the war is over and I 
come back. Tell me, so that I may go in happiness. Tell 
me, and when I look up and see the white clouds I shall think 
they are your thoughts hovering over me. Tell me, and when 
the snowflakes melt on my cheek I shall feel them to be your 
kisses. Tell me, Aneta, beloved.” 

She raised her face to him. “I love you, Alosha,” she said, 
and her rigid body became like malleable white clay in the 
passion of his embrace. 

A cloud hurrying across the sky cut off the moon’s unearthly 
light. It shone again upon the young officer striding away, 
his eyes lifted to its radiance. 


XI 

David received his long-awaited charter. It’s arrival, with¬ 
out preliminary warning and without ceremony, was as inex¬ 
plicable as its previous withholding. 

With the parchment containing the illegible but precious 
signatures in his possession he could begin his business in 
Russia whenever he pleased. There were many incentives to 
haste. 



72 WINE OF FURY 

He was anxious to commence the task which had occupied 
his attention in planning for the past two years—a task which, 
consuming the first years of the most vigorous period of his 
life, would be the most important of his life. That was cer¬ 
tain. He saw it clearly. The success or failure of this un¬ 
dertaking would be his success or failure, measured by the 
exacting standards of his profession. He knew that the eyes of 
men who counted in world financial circles were upon him. 

Vexation at the attitude of his superiors in New York in¬ 
creased this anxiety. The delay had irritated them. His de¬ 
tailed letters of explanation seemed to have no effect. He 
finally came to realise the impossibility of explaining to these 
men. They could not understand. They did not want to un¬ 
derstand. They only wanted their way. And an American 
was supposed to be clever enough to get it in spite of the 
obstacles the “foreigners” erected in the path. 

An incident of recent occurrence increased his annoyance. 
Six young men, the nucleus of the clerical force of his branch, 
arrived from the United States. They were inexperienced. 
They could not speak three consecutive words of the language. 
He looked at these young men as they sat about him, full of 
raw curiosity and provincial comparison of all things unfa¬ 
miliar to all things American, and wondered if he too had been 
like that on his first trip abroad. Experienced assistants were 
available, at a price. Those in charge at home did not wish 
to pay the price—or they did not consider his work of enough 
importance. He reflected that, although large, his venture was 
only one of many in various parts of the globe which inter¬ 
ested his institution. That must be it, then: they did not con¬ 
sider it of enough importance. “The only way,” he thought, 
“is to get to work at once, to collect so much business here, 
so much financial responsibility, that sheer mass of liabilities 
will compel their attention. Frighten them into attention and 
consideration. Fear, self-interest, expediency, are their chief 
incentives to action.” 

In his haste to accomplish the many matters of detail which 


THE AWAKENING 73 

stood between him and the official opening of his office, he 
delayed for two days informing Natalie over the telephone. 

She came that afternoon to congratulate him and to inspect 
the decorations and changes which had been made at her 
suggestions. The carpenters had not finished, but they were 
to continue work while the branch was in operation. 

Again David went the rounds with her, pointing out the 
changes and the opportunities for future improvement. The 
telephone bell interrupted them. She followed to his office and 
watched with something akin to amazement his enthusiastic 
surrender to the detailed demands of his work. He seemed to 
enjoy it, to take a keen pride in solving the numerous problems 
which arose. This was her first glimpse of the religious fer¬ 
vour with which Americans worshipped their great god Busi¬ 
ness. She recalled the casual interest most Russians had in 
work of the same nature. With them it assumed a secondary 
importance to the pleasures of life. “You really enjoy this 
as much as you appear to?” she queried as she watched him. 

“Yes,” he answered, as he ripped open an envelope with a 
stroke to which he added the elan a cavalier of old would have 
given the thrust of his sword, “it’s a great thing—work. Keeps 
us occupied, saves us from too much introspection,-” 

The tingle of the bell again interrupted. As he talked 
into the instrument, she took advantage of the opportunity to 
leave quietly, aware that business demanded his unshared 
attention. But he halted her with a motion of his hand and 
she waited until the conversation was over. “Going?” he 
queried, and then, without waiting for a reply: “I realise 
I’m not good company to-day, but”—and he gestured over 
the mass of papers on his desk—“you’ll excuse me this time, 
won’t you?” 

She nodded and smiled. 

“This phone call,” he continued, “I regret it, but it will 
be impossible for me to visit you for dinner on Thursday, as 
I’d promised. The Ministry just called and said the only 
chance I’d have to see the Minister would be on Thursday 


74 WINE OF FURY 

evening, so I’ve got to see him then. I’ve been a long time 
working for the meeting and heaven only knows when I’ll 
get another opportunity.” 

She expressed a sincere regret, but beyond that and the 
usual parting word, said nothing as he descended with her to 
the door. 

She walked all the distance home in complete abstraction. 
She realised that it was for the last time. She could not 
come to the building again unless upon the most urgent 
business. She had little of that with banks. To go there 
after its official opening would be running after the powerful 
young American. Not that she minded people saying this; 
but she would not have David think it. 

She liked David. And to a certain extent she understood 
him. She liked and understood his strength of character, his 
optimism and his determination; but instinctively she did not 
like and did not understand the abandon with which he applied 
these characteristics strictly to material ends. His devotion 
to his work aroused her admiration and misgiving—admiration 
for the strength of his purpose and the perseverance with 
which he followed it; and misgiving as to how far it would 
lead him. Already she thought that he would follow wherever 
it might lead. 

She began to appreciate the difference between their points 
of view, their aims, their respective philosophies of life. 
Vaguely to be sure, but nevertheless certainly. Watching 
him here at his desk a premonition of conflict had come over 
her. In the official inauguration of his work she saw also 
the initial steps of the influence which might lead him away 
from her. She realised that they had come to a crossing in 
their ways as casual and as fateful as their first meeting. 
The time had come when she could no longer suit her action 
to his; when, as she openly expressed it to herself, “I can no 
longer assume the initiative in seeing him.” Also, she realised 
for the first time how the probability of his assuming the 
initiative concerned her. 

She was frank enough in this self-analysis not to let the 


THE AWAKENING 75 

realisation embarrass her into holding aloof in hope that 
he too would see the crossing of the ways. Detachment, 
aloofness was not in her. She wished a vital part in every 
struggle. No, before adopting such an attitude .in their 
relationship the crossing must be brought to his attention, or 
else in the rush of business he would not see it. It must be 
made clear that the future of their relationship depended upon 
his own action. But how? She could not tell him so. “He 
must see it for himself,” she concluded. 

The day of the official opening came at last. Custom of the 
country demanded ceremony. Dignitaries from the cathedral, 
assisted by a choir, were to render the usual religious service 
and bless the ikons of the new institution. Without this 
formality no new office would, or could, progress in Russia. 
To follow this a reception, with light refreshments, had been 
arranged. Announcements had been mailed and invitations 
sent. Nearly everyone David knew in the city arrived to 
congratulate him. 

It was not until half-way through the ceremony that he 
experienced his first profound emotional reaction of the day. 
The gorgeous robes of the priests, the rich voices of the choir 
and the ethereal music recalled a past experience—the 
cathedral and his first meeting with Natalie. Where was she 
this afternoon? He looked for her in vain. 

Throughout the reception, when people stepped up to wish 
him and his enterprise the best of fortune and to ohat casually 
concerning topics of current interest, questions about Natalie 
shifted in his mind. What was the matter? Why had she 
not come? He had not sent her an invitation, to be sure; but 
that was because he had talked with her about it, not once, 
but many times; had even consulted her over his plans; and 
had counted her presence here as axiomatic. Was she ill? 
If so, she would have sent word. Perhaps she had done so. 
He had not looked at his mail for a day. Her note might be 
on his desk. 

He could hardly wait for the last guest to go, for the 
settlement of the bill owed to the priest and his entourage, 


76 WINE OF FURY 

to hasten to his office and look among his letters. Yes, there 
was her square white envelope. He tore it open, took out 
the enclosed sheet and read: 

Dear Mr. Rand, —I cannot come on Thursday. I regret it deeply, 
but there are considerations which make it impossible. 

Congratulations, and the best of fortune—or should I say business?—• 
to you. As ever, 

Natalie Dukharina. 

Just that; nothing more. He turned the paper over re¬ 
flectively. What did it mean? “There are considerations 
which make it impossible.” What were they? He went to 
the bay-window and stood looking out into the grey and white 
distance across the still river. In the midst of his thoughts a 
boy opened the door and announced a name of importance in 
Russian commerce—his first client. A minute later found him 
engrossed in earnest discussion of terms for the new bank’s 
first loan. 


XII 

For David these were days filled with the zest of vindication. 
From the first day the new bank was assured of success. The 
steady flow of business to its doors permitted no doubt. He 
viewed with satisfaction the practice which the handling of it 
gave to the members of his staff. They would, he thought, be 
able to learn by experience, with but few of the costly errors 
which that harsh teacher so often exacts. He had even found it 
possible safely to delegate authority to some of his assistants 
with a view to preparing them for the future. 

He saw, too, in the progress of his work, the approach of 
that time when he could part with Radkin without bringing 
either upon himself or that personage the suspicions of the 
police. When things developed a little further Radkin could, 
as they had agreed, “find other and more remunerative rewards 
for his services,” and resign. 


THE AWAKENING 77 

In his work he found relief and interest after his long 
months of alternate hope and frustration. Anticipation of 
the day’s problems drew him each morning to the office. 
Likewise, reflection upon their solution inspired him in the 
evenings of association with friends and Natalie. 

He had followed up her note of regret at being unable 
to attend the official opening of his business. He had not 
realised the delight which had been his at finding those “other 
considerations” of not enough importance to warrant dis¬ 
cussion. At least they had not been mentioned. 

She was as before, the same quiet, direct companion. His 
visits to the Dukharin home became regular. They went 
about much together, especially to the opera, the ballet, 
concerts and the galleries. Under her guidance he had 
revealed to him a world of beauty of which heretofore he 
had known little. 

One afternoon he attended a public inspection of her 
hospital school. She had placed on sale samples of the handi¬ 
work done by the soldiers. The funds derived therefrom 
were to he devoted to enlargement and improvement. The 
sale was a great success. She came with him to the bank to 
establish an account with the money. As he opened the door 
of his office to her she heard him catch his breath in surprise. 
Her glance followed his. There on the floor beside his desk 
stood a pyramid of gold bars. Yawning open in the wall 
beside the mantel was the wall-safe, the presence of which 
was known only to himself and his chief assistant. Beside 
it stood this assistant, awaiting David’s arrival, with sheaves 
of documents in hand. 

David sat weakly in his chair. He realised what had 
happened. The transaction, a loan involving the gold as 
security, had been pending for weeks. An unusual propo¬ 
sition, he had hesitated to accept it. He had refused to be 
responsible for the gold, having no place but his inadequate 
and temporary office safes for its storage. 

He needed no explanation. In his absence the assistant 
had accepted the metal. 


78 


WINE OF FURY 

It seemed incredible. But there were the documents on his 
desk. Pending negotiations to rectify the error, the responsi¬ 
bility for the gold rested with him. 

After the first turmoil of his emotions had subsided, David 
sat for a moment in silence. It was useless to blame his 
assistant. His intentions had been of the best. David 
motioned him from the office with something of despair in 
his eyes. His experience in business circles here, short as 
it was, already pointed out to him as possible weeks, even 
months, of negotiations before the error could be remedied. 
This unexpected incident recalled to mind others which had 
occurred in the course of his dealings with the borrowing 
bank, incidents which, in company with this one, led him to 
suspect that the situation had been forced. 

Not for long, however, was he inactive. He telephoned and 
arranged for a meeting with the bank officials. He rang for 
his assistant and instucted him to place the gold in the safe. 
Only then did he turn to Natalie. 

She, regretting her presence, which must have made it 
more difficult for him, now showed a frank interest in the 
yellow metal. She bent over and examined one of the sullen 
bars. Here and there on its surfaces a bright gleam emanated 
from a scratched corner or from the depression of a stamped 
number. “My father,” she remarked, looking up at him, 
“was interested in a gold mine, but I never saw as much as 
this. It looks more like brass than the gold we see, doesn’t 
it?” 

He nodded. She noted his preoccupation, and felt suddenly 
that her being there might hamper him in some action he 
had planned. She gave him her hand. “I had better go,” 
she said. “I hope this will come out all right. I’m sure it 
will. I know that you want nothing said of it. I am sorry I 
happened to be here. It shall be, as far as I am concerned, 
as though nothing had occurred.” 

His thanks were obvious. She felt pleased that she had 
been able to dispel any worry he might have had on the 
subject of the gold’s presence being known outside. As 


THE AWAKENING 79 

she crossed the long waiting-room and descended the marble 
stairs she carried with her the picture of his tall figure almost 
merged in the darkness of the surging clouds seen through 
the window behind him, helping the assistant to lift the 
reluctant bars to the black square of the open wall-safe. 


XIII 

With the increase in his work David found himself drawn 
into new circles of acquaintance. He could no longer go 
where and when he willed—to the Dukharins’ for a comfort¬ 
able evening of dinner and conversation or to the apartments 
of various of his other friends in Petrograd. The dictates of 
business decreed that on this evening he should dine with 
Baron Alexansky, where the financing of the Southern Rail¬ 
way would be discussed, and on that night that he should ac¬ 
company So-and-so to the opera and make the acquaintance of 
a prospective new and worth-while account. 

Suddenly become a figure of importance in financial Russia, 
he found the need of more experience in the ways of the 
country to fall back upon in steering a clear course through 
the maze of business and political intrigue. 

He began to take refuge in the Countess Borovskaya. As 
a fellow-countryman he had confidence in her sincere friend¬ 
ship and as a social diplomat her record spoke for itself. 
Her manipulation of Petrograd society remained still vivid 
in the minds of some of its most conspicuous components. 
“That incorrigible Countess Borovskaya!” they still remarked 
upon learning by the afternoon tea route of the Countess’ 
latest social triumph—the elevation of some favoured friend 
or the prompt elimination of a presumptuous competitor. He 
became a frequent visitor at her house. So much so that 
the Countess’ hesitant enemies began to nod insinuatingly. 
“Aren’t they amusing?” she commented one day when he 
told her of the latest gossip. Her advice concerning connec- 


80 WINE OF FURY 

tions he should and should not form—always requested, never 

offered—was usually unerring. 

He accompanied her to the opera one evening. At their 
entrance into the Borovsky box, the resplendent green of the 
Countess’ gown, capped by the burnished copper of her hair, 
made them the target for a thousand glances. Lorgnettes and 
opera-glasses pointed at them, and many were the whispers 
behind distended fans—all of which the Countess enjoyed 
thoroughly. 

As usual, David found considerable to interest him. Al¬ 
though the Countess had impressed upon him that the 
audiences were not the brilliant gatherings of pre-war evenings, 
when full-dress uniforms and extreme toilettes were the vogue, 
this particular gathering had a reserved glamour about it. 
The implication of many black gowns could not be missed. 
The great theatre, with all the blue, white and gold of its 
decoration, supplied what its audience held back. The two 
ministerial boxes at right and left of the stage framed the 
colourful grouping of their occupants in gilded columns and 
blue hangings. All the way up, the tiers of boxes and loges 
showed animated clusters of faces which smiled, peered ex¬ 
pectantly about, and strove to discern the occupants of the 
massive crowned and canopied Imperial box. 

David’s glance rested on the inverted dome, composed of 
myriads of strung crystals, which illuminated the scene. 
What psychological trick made him wonder at the effect upon 
its magnificence of one snip of a wire-cutter at the central, 
binding wire? How the glittering crystals would crash to 
the floor, scatter in a thousand directions, vanish, lose them¬ 
selves for ever in far corners, leaving only the naked, dang¬ 
ling wires which had held them! 

The lights behind it dimmed slowly, and with them the hum 
of conversation weakened into silence—silence into which 
presently stole the music. The curtain rose noiselessly, and 
the opera, Prince Igor, began. 

The Countess required but little attention at the opera. 
Besides the music, which she understood and enjoyed, there 


THE AWAKENING 81 

was the self-imposed task of noting just who in the audience 
accompanied who and of figuring out what it meant. 

The brilliance of the theatre and the audience somehow 
evoked in David’s mind the image of Natalie. “It must be,” 
he thought, “the contrast to her direct simplicity.” He 
looked carefully about the theatre for her. She was not to 
be seen. “I must give up cultivating strangers just for their 
business and call on the Dukharins,” he thought. “I wonder 
what they’ve been doing, the General, Anna and Natalie.” 
And his thoughts rambled off in the recollection of pleasant 
evenings spent with them. 

Before he realised it, the act ended. The lights came on, 
and the drone of conversation resumed. 

The Countess turned to him with a smile. “You are 
bored,” she stated with a definiteness which left no room for 
argument. “It does rather drag to-night. We’ll go after 
the ballet. Look, there’s Naritza down in the third box. 
Who’s that she’s with? Looks like the old Baron Gertz. It is. 
Wonder what he’s got that she wants. They’ll promenade 
after the ballet—he’ll not let the chance go by to show off 
the fact that he’s with Naritza—and I’ll introduce you. Then 
if you say that you were bored on the evening you first met 
Naritza you’ll be placed in the museum!” 

The second act began. In the dim light, the stage with 
its setting seemed in reality a part of the Tartar camp, with 
the empty plain stretching endlessly away under the pale 
light of the moon. The music thrummed and sang as the 
camp followers, slaves, and the warriors with their bows 
and arrows swirled past the chieftain and the captured Prince 
Igor seated under the canopy. Faster and more insistent 
came the music in Oriental rhythm, faster swirled the dancers 
and more intricate grew their evolutions. Now the warriors 
leaped and brandished their weapons, tossed them in the air; 
now the slaves gyrated and twisted sinuously before them; 
and now in pairs they were off in a writhing mass that in¬ 
volved and undid itself in a maze of movement. Finally, as 
the music burst into a blare of brass and screaming strings, 


82 WINE OF FURY 

they swept down the whole depth of the scene in a mad leaping 
wave, which threatened to break over the footlights in a mael¬ 
strom of kaleidoscopic humanity, only to catch and repeat 
itself again and again, until the final crash of the music found 
the audience on its feet cheering and applauding, itself 
inspired with the barbaric rush of the dance. 

When the excitement had subsided David and the Countess 
left the box and entered the promenade. A throng of uni¬ 
formed men and jewelled women crowded the long, cream- 
coloured room with the blue hangings and the glittering 
chandeliers and went round and round its walls in an endless 
oval of humanity. Now and then couples stopped, stepped 
aside to greet friends, and formed animated groups which 
were buffeted about by the irresistible procession. Before 
the entrance of the Imperial box two handsome guards con¬ 
stantly went through the evolutions of their salute to the 
uniforms which swept past them in an endless line. The spaces 
opening into the promenade from the balcony off the second- 
floor tier of boxes were filled with faces watching the spectacle 
below; and the stairways and corridors leading to the buffets, 
where tea-cakes and sandwiches were served, were also 
crowded. 

As they approached the entrance after the completion of 
their second round of the promenade they met the old Baron 
with Naritza on his arm, hastening as best his stiffened limbs 
could carry him to exhibit his prize to the assembled populace. 
Even before their actual meeting David felt the dancer’s bold, 
open gaze fixed upon him. The Countess stopped, and intro¬ 
ductions followed. 

The elemental directness of Naritza’s appeal startled him. 
Discussions of her had palled upon him and he was quite 
prepared to find her unattractive. But something about the 
solid curves of her black hair—like carved ebony—the flat 
whiteness of her throat, neck and arms, and the accentuated 
lines of her figure under the lustrous crimson of her dress 
aroused in him a desire to hold her—but with the appre- 


THE AWAKENING 83 

hension due a rare and priceless ox-blood vase filled with 
subtle poison. 

As he bowed and murmured his pleasure he felt the frank, 
almost Oriental sophistication of her stare as she stood 
awaiting the usual compliment. He could say nothing. 
Words seemed to have left him. He heard the Baron, who was 
slightly deaf, say in a strident whisper as he leaned towards 
the Countess: “Eh? What? Who? Rand? The Ameri¬ 
can banker who’s come to take all the money out of Russia?” 
And the old man’s cackle of glee at what he thought humour 
still further prevented David from speaking by arousing his 
anger at this sample of the propaganda being carried on against 
his work. 

Here, while still searching for words adequate to the occa¬ 
sion, he saw the Princess, Anna and Alexei passing in the rest¬ 
less throng. Their glances met. The Countess found difficulty 
in smoothing out a frown. “They will all have to be intro¬ 
duced now,” she thought. 

David spoke their names to the Countess, to Naritza, and 
to the old Baron, who stood pop-eyed with excitement at 
being the centre of so much female attractiveness. Naritza 
accepted the introductions casually and seemed even to be 
looking away from the group about her. 

Anna stood behind the Princess looking up at Alexei. It 
seemed as though she had not heard her introduction. 
“Anna,” said the Princess, “come. You are being introduced. 
This is the Countess Borovskaya and this . . . Mademoiselle 
Naritza.” Anna smiled and curtsied to the Countess. From 
Naritza she turned her face. “Anna,” repeated the Princess 
with a note of reproval in her voice, “this is Mademoiselle 
Naritza.” 

“Yes,” replied Anna with surprising coldness; “I do not 
wish to know her.” Again she turned away. 

“Aneta!” exclaimed the Princess. “What do you mean? 
Are you joking?” 

“No, mamma,” said Anna, looking straight at the anger-white 


84 WINE OF FURY 

face of Naritza. “I do not wish to know her. I saw enough 
of her one night at Donon’s. She is a bad woman. Come, 
Alosha!” She walked away with the young lieutenant. 

Consternation! David shared it with the others. 

He was not aware of what words followed. There were 
apologies, explanations, embarrassing silences, and finally, 
with much belittlement of “the child’s unrealised conduct” on 
the part of the Princess and the Countess, the group disinte¬ 
grated as the warning bell rang for the next act. 

David, walking away with the Countess, could not efface 
from his mind the memory of Naritza’s face, the hate in her 
narrowed eyes contrasted with the artificial smile she had 
arranged about her lips. 

“I don’t understand it,” continued the Countess as they left 
the theatre. “What’s behind it, I don’t know. So deliberate 
and bold. Such a young and pretty thing, too. But it’ll 
make trouble. Naritza will never let that pass. It hit her 
hard.” 

“Surely,” said David, “she won’t take seriously the remarks 
of a child like that.” 

“Child?” queried the Countess. “She’s woman enough to 
be in love with that lieutenant. She spoke enough truth to 
hurt Naritza. I could see that. And when one woman 
hurts another . . . well . . .” She shrugged her shoulders 
under her thick furs as the sleigh whisked them homeward. 


XIV 

For Foma life in the barracks unwound itself in the usual 
routine. Drill, drill, drill, day in and day out, and inspections 
and marches in preparation for the formation of the new 
armies in the spring, of which Foma’s regiment was to be 
the nucleus of a division. 

Less talkative than his fellows, he found himself more or 
less left to his own resources for diversion. He welcomed this, 
because it was his wish to share as much of his spare time 


THE AWAKENING 85 

as possible with Masha. Not that he lacked friends. Far 
from it; he was even respected by his barrack mates; but his 
friendship was not demonstrative. Also his dislikes—they are 
called that because he hardly took the trouble to make them 
into enmities. One of these was for Vletsky, the chap who had 
taunted him after the blow in the face bestowed by the new 
officer, Marinoff. 

Vletsky puzzled him. He seemed determined to be friendly, 
to be of influence with others. He seemed to have more 
freedom too. He roamed everywhere, in and out the barracks, 
engaged in earnest, wheedling talk with some comrade, his 
yellow hair down over his washed-out blue eyes which whisked 
from side to side as he talked, and his thin lips curling in 
sneering smiles. He spoke too much German. Foma dis¬ 
liked him for this. But he did not bother his head much 
with it. Masha filled his thoughts. 

One Sunday morning she gave him a wonderful surprise. 
She had saved up enough money and had been able to buy 
two seats for a performance of the opera Boris Goudunov with 
Chaliapin. To be sure, they were very cheap seats, away up at 
the top near the roof of the great People’s Theatre, but even 
there one could see and hear. That was enough. The antic¬ 
ipation of it thrilled him. He had been to the opera many 
times, like most of his fellows. But of Chaliapin it was im¬ 
possible to see and hear enough. His magnificence as Boris 
awed, and his humour when temporarily assuming the part of 
the drunken monk in the third act convulsed. At this, with 
the others of the soldiers in the audience, Foma usually 
nearly rolled on the floor with laughter. 

The long-looked-for day came. He applied for a permit 
to leave the barracks in the evening and return after the 
theatre at night. It was refused. No passes would be given. 

There was nothing to do but regret. This he did all day 
through the drill and bayonet exercises, through his turn at 
guard, and well on through the afternoon towards evening. 
Then Vletsky approached him. “You cannot get a pass?” 
he inquired ingratiatingly. 


86 WINEOFFURY 

“No,” mumbled Foma, wondering what the fellow wanted 
now. 

“Well,” continued Vletsky, “I have one I cannot use. You 
can use it. See, I have rubbed out my name and number; 
you can fill in yours—and there you are.” He forced the 
paper into Foma’s hand and slumped away. 

“Thank God! I can go now,” exclaimed Foma to himself. 
And then something within him seemed to whisper: “It is 
not right for you to sign your name and number when the 
pass was not issued to you. Then, too, think of the con¬ 
sequences if you are discovered.” He stood still a long time 
as if weighing tremendous considerations in his mind. “But 
Masha . . .” 

At the appointed hour and place he met her. They walked 
to the theatre oblivious of the maelstrom of sleighs with their 
plunging horses, limousines with their glaring lights; and 
once inside, they climbed to their seats, so high up as to 
enable them almost to touch the domed ceiling. From them 
they could look down into the vast amphitheatre and along 
the animated half-circles of the crowded balconies. 

Foma clasped Masha by the hand and leaned out over the 
iron rail in order to see the entire audience. Far below, 
he watched the great men and their ladies take their places 
in the boxes—for the great forsook the Imperial Opera, 
the Mariensky, for the cheaper People’s Opera when Chali¬ 
apin sang. How magnificent they were in their dark uniforms, 
buttoned and braided in gold, and studded with decorations, 
and how amusing were the tiny dress swords that swung from 
their belts! “For pencils,” whispered he to Masha, setting 
her quivering with laughter. And the ladies, how beautiful 
their hair and white skin! But how many of them wore black! 

They all rose listlessly and remained standing while the 
orchestra played the Allied national anthems. Then the lights 
went out and the music of the opera began. 

Foma sat enthralled by the powerful, tragic beauty of the 
performance. He forgot himself and his daily cares. To him 
the stage was another world and he threw himself into his 


THE AWAKENING 87 

part of appreciation with all the enthusiasm he could muster. 
When the act ended he sprang to his feet and joined his 
powerful voice to the great shout that shook the dome for Chal¬ 
iapin as he bowed and smiled before the curtain to the thun¬ 
ders of applause from his soldier friends. 

During the intermission they refreshed themselves with 
glasses of tea at the buffet on their floor, and although the 
cakes were far too expensive to buy they did not go without, 
thanks to Masha’s forethought in bringing some small sand¬ 
wiches in her coat-pocket. 

“Look,” she said triumphantly, holding them up to him, 
“for our tea, instead of those at the buffet we cannot buy. I 
know the woman in the bread-shop in our district quite well, 
and by standing last in line yesterday morning and staying 
late I managed to get her to give me a very small extra piece 
like this; and I made these for you and me. It was very 
difficult. Aren’t they good?” 

“Yes,” said Foma abstractedly. 

“And, Foma,” she rattled on, “do you know what the woman 
told me? That soon there may come a time when there will 
be no bread. Do you hear? When there will be no bread 
at all. What will we do then? It will be terrible. Oh, you 
stupid! You are not thinking about it. You are like one 
of the rich who has never been without bread; he cannot under¬ 
stand what it means. Have you ever been without it? No, 
of course not; you are in the army and you have all you want. 
We ordinary people do not. Think what it means. What 
shall we do then?” 

“I do not know,” he answered, still looking off into space. 
“Let’s not think about it. It has not happened. Think about 
the opera. Isn’t it beautiful?” 

In a few moments she forgot the bread. 

Throughout the remainder of the performance strange 
and vaguely formed thoughts wandered in Foma s mind. If 
by work and co-operation people could create such a thing 
as this, why was there not more of it? Why was he not able 
to see more of it? Why should men have to work night and 


88 WINE OF FURY 

day in the dirt and squalor he had known when there was such 
happiness as he now enjoyed? And why should men like 
himself who were peaceable have to kill each other? It should 
not be so. Somewhere there was something terribly wrong. 
Someone continued to make grievous mistakes. 

It seemed cruel to have to step out into the real world again. 
The cold air scattered all his thoughts and visions. Peculiarly 
enough, it was clear; not a cloud in the sky. The moon hung 
enveloped in a thin haze and a faintly coloured ring encircled 
it. Stars glittered brightly in the steel-blue heavens and the 
air seemed cold with a strange dryness. They walked out to 
the quay and crossed the bridge, which seemed so useless 
at this time with the apparently solid ice beneath it. Now and 
then a searchlight, faint before the moon’s glow, fanned the 
horizon silently. The two of them hurried along, very close 
to each other, saying little, as if listening to the clatter of 
Foma’s hobnail boots on the granite flagstones. Occasionally 
a sleigh raced past them, or a great motor car slid swiftly by. 

As they started to cross at an intersecting street a limousine 
swung round the comer, straight at them. With arms locked, 
they each tried to jump in a different direction and conse¬ 
quently failed to move at all. The driver jammed his brakes 
and swung the car to the sloping curb, where it stopped. He 
smiled at them in frightened relief as they started to walk 
away. From inside came shouts. The door opened and an 
officer leaned out, who, upon seeing that a common moujik 
had caused all this trouble, cursed Foma loudly. Foma stood 
in the dim light almost paralysed with fear. It was Marinoff, 
the new lieutenant. The curses seemed to drip from his lips. 
A woman’s face appeared at the door and her hands pulled 
Marinoff back into the seat. 

The car went on and Foma continued on his way with Masha 
to her home. Fear possessed him; fear that Marinoff had 
recognised him and that it would go hard with him on the 
coming morning. Masha did not share his fear. She said 
Marinoff was too drunk to recognise anyone, and even if he 
had, would not remember it the next day. He would be 


THE AWAKENING 89 

very busy with a big head. Good, reassuring, sensible Masha! 
He kissed her for it. 

The next morning the routine unwound itself as usual. He 
received no more attention than anyone else and gradually the 
fear that he might have been discovered wore away. By after¬ 
noon he was quite free of it and happy that he and Masha had 
had such an enjoyable time. 

After evening mess, however, at eight o’clock, he received 
a summons to Marinoff’s office. He went so quickly that there 
was not even time to be afraid, but as he passed down the long 
corridor he noticed that all the other offices were vacant. 
Only Marinoff was in his. He stepped into the room saluted 
smartly. Marinoff sat at his desk, his sleek black hair shin¬ 
ing in the light hanging low over it. The corners of his 
mouth twitched slightly. 

“Private Foma Ivanovitch Pashkin,” he questioned evenly, 
“you applied for a pass yesterday?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Foma. 

“It was not granted you?” went on Marinoff. 

“No, sir,” came the answer. 

“Nevertheless you went out last night, did you not?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Foma. 

“On this pass?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Foma, looking at the slip of paper held 
out to him. 

“Well, where did you get it?” shouted Marinoff, stiffening 
in his chair. 

“God of mine!” thought Foma, “how did he know? Had 
he been recognised the night before after all? Perhaps Vlet- 
sky had told. But why should he tell, after having been good 
enough to give him the pass? What grudge did Vletsky have 
against him? No, it could not be.” Then, in a loud voice, 
he stated: “I made it.” 

“You devil. You liar,” shouted Marinoff, leaping from 
his seat and quite overlooking in his rage the fact that Foma 
had not lied. “I’ll teach you not to lie to me. I’ll teach you 
not to forge my passes”; and then, almost jumping at the 


90 WINE OF FURY 

silent soldier, he cried insanely: “I’ll teach you not to spy 
on me! Spy! I’ll teach you!” He turned to his desk 
and rang two bells. 

“Spy,” thought Foma. “I do not understand. What does 
he mean?” Even had there been time, he was not enough 
acquainted with psychology to think that Marinoff might be 
the victim of a guilty conscience. A side door opened and 
two guards stepped into the room. 

“Turn that long table on end,” commanded Marinoff, point¬ 
ing to a table at the side wall. They complied. “Now strip 
this man and hold him up against it.” 

Things moved too fast for Foma. He stood as if immovable, 
still trying to think, still wondering. Spy! What did the man 
mean? He felt himself seized roughly. Off came his belt, 
his tunic, followed by his heavy undershirt, which they pulled 
off over his head. Down fell his trousers over his heavy boots, 
followed by the under-drawers, which fell in a mass about 
his feet. 

They hauled him to the table, faced him up against it and 
held his arms tightly. Marinoff opened a drawer in his 
desk and took out a short-handled whip with many leather 
lashes. “Turn him face to me,” he ordered. Foma was 
swung round, his back to the table, his arms stretched over 
its top and held down tightly behind by the two guards. His 
clothes round his ankles made it impossible for him to move his 
feet. He was helpless. 

Marinoff stepped up to him whip in hand. He could not 
look squarely into the wondering hazel eyes of the blond giant 
before him, but his small black pupils scrutinised the 
magnificent torso, noting the heavy shoulders, the deep chest 
rising and falling slowly, the compact waist and the sturdy 
legs. His glance seemed to dwell in sensual pleasure on 
the fair skin and the long, full muscles. 

With a sudden stroke like the flashing of a cat’s paw he 
swung the whip across the chest of his victim, seemingly 
aiming at the neat round scar over the right lung. A sharp 


THE AWAKENING 91 

intake of breath and a series of livid stripes were all that 
rewarded his expectant look. Again, deliberately across the 
stomach. No sound. And then, with a disgusting oath, he 
lashed out in senseless fury, swinging again and again on the 
helpless body, from shoulder down to knees and back again, 
with all his strength. But no sound came save the swish of 
the lashes, the impact of leather against the muscles which 
writhed and seemed to race and twist beneath the skin, once 
fair, now livid as from a vampire’s kiss. No sound for 
moments, but finally the savage blows robbed Foma of his 
strength, his knees gave way and he hung by his arms, head 
fallen on one side, whimpering at each stroke like a wounded 
puppy. At this sign of weakness Marinoff tried to increase 
his efforts and to laugh triumphantly, but, exhausted, he 
dropped the whip and flung himself into his chair, his lips 
dripping and his breath coming in fast, short puffs. He 
waved his hands imperiously towards the door. “Throw him 
out,” he muttered, and fell forward on the desk, his head 
rolling from side to side on his arms. 

The two guards each swung an arm over a shoulder, picked 
Foma up, his clothes also, and carried him to the corridor, 
where they set him down on a bench. His strength came back 
slowly. They saw the crimson welts, some narrow where a 
single lash had struck, others inches broad where a mass of 
them had left a mark like the brand of a red-hot iron. From 
knee to neck they quivered. The two men looked at each other; 
one started to shake his fist at the door through which they 
had come, but let it fall with an apprehensive glance down 
the corridor, as if the spectre of discipline had called to him. 
Foma reached with tortured slowness for his clothes, still 
mumbling, “I do not understand, I do not understand.” The 
guards jumped to help him get them on and assist him out 
to the barracks and up on the hard boards which constituted 
his bed. They arranged the blankets and left him to his pain 
and his thoughts. 


92 


WINE OF FURY 


XV 

The old year sank slowly to rest in the white obscurity of 
snow. The sun vanished for weeks as though extinguished 
at last in the foaming clouds. From the frozen earth and its 
white shroud rose a turgid haze which blurred the vision and 
choked the lungs like cold, acrid dust. It seemed to drive 
people indoors from the streets, and their thoughts inwards 
to themselves and their cares, adding its sullen mass to the 
depression which, Hke a dull weight, had descended upon 
everything but vice. 

Strange rumours winged over the city through the haze. 
Vague suggestions of treachery in the armies and trickery in 
the circles of the Government, all the more disheartening 
because of their lack of definity. The continual shameful 
conduct of the monk Rasputin and the spread of his degrading 
influence in the Court circles added dismay to the anger of 
a sincere people. Efforts to control this influence only be¬ 
came entangled in the web of protective secrecy with which 
the Court surrounded itself, and the patriots only found them¬ 
selves groping in the darkness of Imperial disapproval. 

Like a rocket in the darkness burst the news of the doing 
away of the monk by a group of patriotic young noblemen 
at a dinner, dramatically and in a fashion of medieval times; 
of the search at Royal instigation for the “holy one,” and of the 
discovery of all that remained stiff and stark under the ice 
of the river. 

Whispered discussion circled the city like the wind. Gen¬ 
eral applause for the daring of the deed. General approval 
of the challenge to the powers that were. 

The iron hand of repression clenched its heavy fingers. 
Arrests followed, but not of the too powerful participants in 
the affair. Newspapers appeared with strips of white where 
the broad brush of the censor’s whitewash had smeared and 
discussion spread and intensified, until the advent of the 


THE AWAKENING 93 

Christmas holidays, with their concurrent stopping of work 
and exchange of visits, found the city and the country ablaze 
with patriotic and political fervour. 

The solemn and magnificent ceremonies in the churches 
drew the usual crowds and the religious sentiment aroused 
began to muffle the discontent. 

David Rand, tired of the incessant rumours which never 
seemed to lead to action and inextricably caught in the 
current of his own affairs, went one day with Radkin to view 
one of the processions from the balcony round the dome of 
St. Isaac’s Cathedral—a privileged place granted through the 
influence of a friend. 

Together and in silence they climbed the innumerable stairs 
until they at last emerged on to the platform to find the silent 
city spread out around them. The lowering haze obscured 
its limits and softened every outline. Through its shifting 
opalescent depths the spires and domes loomed and faded 
like the alluring uncertainties of a mirage; and when it 
occasionally sank to the earth it erased the straight lines of 
broad streets and squares and the winding white ribbon of 
the Neva. At their feet the square and the garden before 
the cathedral were obliterated by a close-packed, mottled 
mass of humanity, over which the bronze horse of the Peter 
the Great monument seemed to be leaping—a mass standing 
in awe before the glittering procession which wound about the 
grim granite structure. 

“Look at them!” exclaimed Radkin, “still supporting that 
show of ceremony on the crust of their credulity. Look at 
them, the flunkeys, the dignitaries, the officials, the priests, 
all who make a living out of the system they support at every 
turn. With it goes their livelihood and with its fall they must 
work. They see that the system is extended until its repre¬ 
sentatives, the priests, are in every village of the empire. The 
priest is the father of the community; he knows its every 
happening, its every rumour; he is also a member of the 
system; he sends that knowledge to the spot where it will do 
the most good. The Church is dominant, all-seeing, all- 


94 WINEOFFURY 

hearing. It sees that no scheme of education encroaches upon 
its power. It sees that no faith supplants that of belief in 
the Tsar as the Little Father and submission to him. When 
war comes, brought on by those down there in uniform, it is 
not Russia that must he protected. No, it is the Little 
Father. He is the head of the system. He is the head of the 
Church. He is the star in the jewelled dumb-show which the 
Church puts on to awe its children. And it does awe them. 
Those in the country districts are fascinated by the mysticism 
of it. They are enchanted by the splendour of the robes and 
the building. They worship the idols they contain, the ikons, 
and find swift solace in the motions and incantations made 
before them. The whole business is a vast, gorgeous, mystic 
puppet-show for the delusion of the simple people into un¬ 
questioning support of the little man who is the chief puppet.” 

In the silence which followed these words David glanced 
at Radkin, who seemed absorbed in the scene below him. He 
stood with bowed head, and hands clasped behind his back 
in an attitude of contemplation, which somehow reinforced 
the sibilance of his voice and the sincerity of his words. 

“You do not, then,” ventured David, “think that Russia-■” 

Radkin interrupted him. With a gesture towards the crowd 
below them, he exclaimed: “My good friend, these people, 
this city, is not Russia. Russia is the one hundred and fifty 
millions of the peasant-body—a giant among peoples, sprawl¬ 
ing asleep, feet in the Baltic and Black Seas and cheek in the 
Pacific. Upon his sleeping body the rapacious few have 
built their cities, their industries and their homes wherein 
they live—on his life. Lest he stir and interfere they have 
tied him down with the flaxen rope of industry and commerce, 
the gilded cable of their shining autocracy, and the beaded 
strand of their organised religion. But strong as these bind¬ 
ings are, they are only threads beside his strength; and 
soundly though the giant sleeps he will some time surely 
awake, snap the bonds with a twist of his mighty body, rise 
slowly to his feet, unaware, perhaps, even of the presence of 



THE AWAKENING 95 

those who have tried to hold him down, and take his place 
among the nations-” 

The boom of one of the great bells of the cathedral cut 
short Radkin’s words, dispelling the picture which had been 
created before the bright eye of David’s imagination by the 
forcible sweep of the man’s voice. It filled the air with a 
mighty, quivering resonance; while through it came the sound 
of other bells, scale after scale in tone, rung singly or in strings 
with an Oriental jangle. Below, the crowd surged into tur¬ 
bulence like water in a disturbed tank. Streams of people 
trickled down the streets leading from the square as the great 
reservoir of humanity began to empty. On the quay, sleighs 
and motor cars crawled through the moving mass. The crowd 
thinned rapidly, and soon, as though it were a dirty snow 
which melted, the pavements again became visible. 

The two men glanced at each other. In silence they de¬ 
scended to the street, where the confused voice of the city 
again spoke to them. At the corner across the square they 
separated and went their divergent ways. 


XVI 

The tediousness of the inevitable drill, guard duty and 
inspection which made up the fixed routine had the same effect 
upon Foma as upon the others. Relief lay in talk, and he did 
that now in idle moments with his friends, the more conserva¬ 
tive soldiers. With Vletsky and others he was afraid to talk, 
even afraid to listen; what they said seemed blasphemous to 
all he had been taught to hold in reverence. But about the 
war, criticisms of his country’s conduct of it, its length, and 
indictment of those responsible, he could talk. Why not? 
Everyone did. Not only the soldiers, but even the people in 
the streets, on the trams, everywhere. When at the front he 
had got quite used to hearing the soldiers remark, how, after 
the war, they were going to return to the cities and correct 


96 WINE OF FURY 

the evils of government, even perhaps demand a constitution 
from the Tsar. He often wondered, as the others wondered, 
just what a constitution was. 

The people at home had formerly dared whisper what they 
openly spoke now. Even dear little Masha. “I wish we 
could have peace again,” she said one evening while walking 
with him. “Then we would not have to stand so long in line 
for bread as we do now. Do you know, Foma, how long I 
stood to-day for bread, and very black and wet bread at that? 
Well, from four o’clock this morning until ten. Oh, I was 
tired; and it was very cold; and there was so much talk. 
Everyone wants peace to come, Foma, did you know that? 
How they do chatter in the lines! And, Foma, some are very 
wicked; they even say that the Tsarina—is—is—for the Ger¬ 
mans.” 

“S-s-s-st!” he had hissed as they crossed the street where 
stood the policeman in the dim light of the corner lamp. 
“You must not talk like that. If you do, there may be great 
trouble for you. They will say you are a revolutionist.” 

“No,” she had replied as they drew away from the tyrant, 
“that could not be. I am not clever. I am only a plain peas¬ 
ant girl—your girl,” and she pinched his arm playfully. 

This Vletsky talked much, but it had to be admitted, thought 
Foma, that sometimes he was amusing. For instance, the day 
he had found Vletsky talking to an admiring group in a far 
corner of the barracks, telling how an officer of the Tsarina’s 
own guard had shot at her four times with a pistol and because 
of nervousness had not hit her. “What did they do to him?” 
one of the circle asked breathlessly. “They hanged him,” said 
Vletsky; “but I do not know whether they hanged him because 
he shot at the Empress or because he missed her!” How they 
all had laughed! What a clever chap Vletsky was! 

Foma admitted that, much as he disliked him. He had 
never let opportunity pass to gibe at Foma, to discomfit him 
before his friends. The incidents were innumerable, even 
including the repeated, mocking relation of how funny Foma 


THE AWAKENING 97 

looked that day when the police had ejected him from the 
Summer Garden for eating sunflower seeds within its bounda¬ 
ries. His greasy face always wrinkled in a smile of deliberate 
roguery which he assumed in order to escape the consequences 
of deliberate evil. Foma did not know what to make of him. 
He was so like many others of the revolutionists; he talked so 
much and did so little. Foma’s father had been like that, 
always talking about his grievances and telling what he would 
do when the time came, and when it did come—had he not 
scurried like a little dog? Yes, and Vletsky would do like¬ 
wise. Well, after all, perhaps it was better so. It was good 
to live when one was not certain what happened after death. 
As for those who ruled, they could not help it; they were born 
to it. It must be very annoying work, so why not let the 
great people do it? 

Time passed slowly. For some unknown reason the men 
were confined to barracks more than ever before; and the days 
were much alike, filled with doing the same things in the same 
way. 

Talk increased. To Foma it seemed that he could not 
retire to a corner in the vast building without finding it al¬ 
ready occupied by a group of his comrades talking, talking, 
talking. The police had of late become a persistent subject 
of conversation. The agitators in each barracks kept them to 
the fore as a provocative topic. “The police could be beaten 
all right,” said a member of Foma’s squad one evening; 
“there aren’t many of them and they’re cowards. But the 
Cossacks! At the first sign of trouble the city would be crawl¬ 
ing with them. They’re the ones that would have to be beaten.” 

“Yes,” said another, “that’s right. The Cossacks would be 
against us.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Vletsky in his exhorting tone, rolling his 
narrow, watery eyes ceilingward, “if we only could oppose 
them; if only someone would lead the soldiers out to fight 
the Cossacks, then perhaps the people could settle the dis¬ 
pute to their liking.” 


98 WINE OF FURY 

“Well,” said Foma, “why don’t you lead us out? If we 
must have a leader, why are you not the one, having always 
talked about it?” 

“I?” questioned Vletsky, turning pale at the suggestion. 
“They would not follow me. Would you follow me?” 

“No,” answered Foma, “I would not, because you are always 
in the corner, and if trouble started you would still be in one.” 

The men laughed loudly and looked at Vletsky. His thin 
lips parted in a snarling smile as he answered evilly: “But 
I do not let an officer whip me like a dog with a whip as Mar- 
inoff did to you. No, no, I am not a coward.” He tried to 
laugh and to induce the others of the audience to follow, but 
they looked at Foma in apprehension. 

Foma did not seem to be angry. He calmly said: “You 
cannot call me a coward. It is not true. You know it. I 
have been to the front and you have not. I have been shot 
through the chest and you have not. I have been decorated 
■with the Cross of St. George and you have not. I am not a 
coward. I am only a soldier and an officer can do as he 
likes. You know it, all of you.” 

They did know it, and they showed their approval of Foma’s 
words by leaving Vletsky to himself. 


XVII 

The shrug of the Countess’ shoulders as they drove home¬ 
ward from the opera the night of Anna’s refusal to meet 
Naritza had implied much to David, but, as he eventually 
learned from her, not enough to cover the happenings which 
followed. 

She favoured the bank with a visit one afternoon. David 
had given orders that he was not to be disturbed. Towards 
the closing hour, however, one of his young assistants ven¬ 
tured to open the door and stand before him in troubled 
hesitation. “Well?” queried David, looking up from his* 
papers. 


THE AWAKENING 99 

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Rand,” said the young man, “but 
there’s a lady outside who says she doesn’t know of any reason 
why she can’t see you. She threatens to open the door herself 
and walk right in. I told her you’d left orders not to be dis¬ 
turbed. She said you’d see her at any time. Said her name 
was Countess Borovskaya. Talks like an American. Looks 
like a million.” 

David smiled. “I’m always glad to see the Countess. Never 
try to stop her. I’ll see her now.” 

The Countess swept into the office with a swirl of her long- 
skirted fur coat and a gesture of impatience with her muff. 
She proceeded to deliver her opinion of David’s assistants. 
He listened quietly. “They had their orders,” he said. “You, 
of course, were not expected.” 

She sat upright in the chair beside his desk, her figure, as 
well as her clear, brilliant face, alert. Her brown eyes 
sparkled. 

“I’ve given instructions,” she said finally, assuming a se¬ 
rious and businesslike tone, “for the delivery here to-day of 
those bonds we talked about. That probably means that, after 
the custom of this country, you’ll get them in two weeks—if 
you’re lucky. But that’s your worry.” 

They discussed details of the transaction. The conversation 
rambled off to current social gossip. Finally, the Countess 
stopped talking and looked off through the low French window 
out across the white immobility of the Neva. Her patent- 
leather toe tapped nervously on the thick carpet. She evi¬ 
dently had something else to say. David suspected it to be 
the real object of her visit. To tease her, he remained quiet. 

“Have you seen the Princess Dukharina or Miss Natalie 
lately?” she asked, with a quick glance at him. 

“No,” David replied; “not since the night at the opera.” 

“You’re not likely to, for a while, either,” replied the Count¬ 
ess. 

“No?” said David. “Well, perhaps not.” He indicated 
the pile of papers on his desk. “These things tie me closely. 
I don’t get out much now.” 


100 WINE OF FURY 

“It’s not that,” came the annoyed answer. “I don’t believe 
they’ll want to see you.” 

“Why not?” 

“You’ve not heard what has happened?” 

“No. Has anything happened?” He asked the question in¬ 
cidentally, as though it were of no particular importance. 
It was sport to tease the Countess Borovskaya. The oppor¬ 
tunities were few. Many a person in Petrograd would have 
given much for this one. 

“Don’t you want to know?” she questioned vehemently. 

“Is it anything I should know?” he asked. 

The Countess twisted in her chair. For a moment she was 
silent. Then, unable to contain herself longer, she exclaimed 
in haste which sent the words tumbling from her active lips: 

“You’ll know eventually. All Petrograd is talking about 
it. It’s about little Anna Dukharina and Naritza. That 
night at the opera. You remember. The insult. I told you 
Naritza would never let it go without some sort of revenge. 
Well, she’s done nothing to the girl—that is, directly. But 

indirectly- It must be terrible for the little thing. That 

simple lout of a lieutenant she’s in love with! Some say 
they’re secretly engaged. Anyway, Naritza contrived to meet 
him. At a dinner. She played up to him. He fell madly 
in love with her. Followed her around like a dog. From 
dinner-party to box-party. Would do anything she wished. 
It was sickening to see her play with him. So easy. Naritza 
—she ought to have been ashamed of herself, only she has no 
shame. He did not go near Anna. It’s said that she broke 
down completely, and wrote him a note which ended with: ‘I 
never want to see you again—never, never, never!’ 

“Finally he followed Naritza to Moscow—on the very day 
he received his army orders sending him to the front. It 
practically amounted to desertion. Naritza left him there. 
She accomplished her aim. Humiliated Anna by taking the 
boy away from her to his disgrace. To make it all the worse, 
Anna has just run off after him. To hunt for him and bring 
him back. . . . She dreamed one night that he would die 


THE AWAKENING 101 

there. That’s what she said in a note to her parents. They 
don’t know what to do. The disgrace of it. The impetuous¬ 
ness of those two children. Naritza seems satisfied now. 
Says when they return they’ll have been punished enough. 
It’s one more successful intrigue in her record. But Anna 
and Alexei—what’s become of them? They can’t be found. 

“No, I can’t stop! I only had a few minutes. I must go. 
Do come to see me. See if there’s anything you can do to 
help them out. Good-bye.” 

Her purpose achieved, the Countess, somewhat breathless, 
left the office and the building. David, rising to stand at the 
window, saw her erect figure swaying with the sleigh as it bore 
her rapidly up the street. 


XVIII 

Meanwhile events were proceeding on their haphazard way. 

The forces of public thought and emotion, which contributed, 
grew to remarkable strength and were gradually approaching 
freedom of expression. Strange phenomenon for Russia. 

The rumours undenied and undeniable which had been 
born with the military disasters of the previous summer now 
flourished over the city. Of scandals in the supply depart¬ 
ments. Of abortive strategy and betrayal at the front. And 
of sinister and powerful influences being exerted in Govern¬ 
ment circles—even upon the Tsar himself—to bring about a 
separate peace with Germany. 

Added to these were facts. Of mishandling of labour, 
leading to strikes which endangered the supply of materials 
to the armies. Of breakdowns in transport, which resulted 
in shortages of food. And, when guilt was pinned upon 
the ministers concerned, of disregard of this guilt or of min¬ 
isterial changes which were sometimes ineffective and some¬ 
times for the worse. 

Activity in the only representative body open to the people, 
the Duma, contributed powerfully to the cumulative atmos- 


102 WINEOFFURY 

phere of protest. Formal discussion of national problems 
long since realised to be futile, and veiled and furtive criti¬ 
cism of the arbitrary policies of the Government shown to be 
without avail, the appeal arose for action by the Tsar which 
would make his chosen Ministry responsible not only to him¬ 
self, but also to the elected representatives of the people in the 
Duma. “We, the Russian people, are fighting this war,” was 
the cry, “and we want a hand in its conduct.” The demands 
being continually ignored, attacks upon the Government finally 
broke out in the Duma, led by Milyoukoff and a young and 
bold hot-head from Saratoff named Kerensky; attacks which 
openly accused certain members of the Ministry of treachery, 
condemned the policy of the Government, and demanded im¬ 
mediate action in reply to the voice of the people. 

Action was taken. The Duma was peremptorily closed. 

Over a period of months all this happened, casually, as 
is the way of events. Without something to startle them, 
command their attention, people might have gone on in the 
same protesting but submitting fashion. The closing of the 
Duma did startle them. It showed them their helplessness. 
It made them recount the diffused incidents of the past, sum 
them up and appreciate their mass weight. Thus goaded, and 
with this pressure behind them, it came about that apparently 
without commensurable warning people greeted this exhi¬ 
bition of intolerance with a storm of public discussion which 
burst through the bonds of respect and fear of Imperial 
authority and, despite the throttling of the Press, swept over 
the city. 

Result: tension in Petrograd. 

Echoes of these events penetrated to the ranks in the city bar¬ 
racks. Discipline was more strictly enforced, and leave from 
the barracks more and more restricted. Yet discussion inten¬ 
sified. Rumours flew thick and fast and were believed until 
others came in contradiction; and he who spoke last convinced 
the crowd. 

One excited fellow rushed in perspiring with the warmth of 


THE AWAKENING 103 

the news he carried. Foma listened. “The Duma is still 
closed. A general strike has been declared for next Saturday. 
The Government has threatened to send the strikers to the 
front. There will be trouble. There will be riots. The 
mounted police will be out in the streets. Perhaps there will 
be Cossacks. If the workers have a leader there may be-” 

“No,” interrupted Foma, “I do not think so. There will 
be nothing. The Cossacks will frighten them. Besides, the 
workmen would rather work than go to the front. Wouldn’t 
you?” And he walked away confidently. 

But that evening when he called on Masha and they sat 
over their tea in the kitchen he found that she too had her 
little head full of rumours. “It is not good,” she said. “I 
am afraid. To-day, Foma Ivanovitch, there was no bread. 
What the woman told me has come true. I arrived at the 
shop at four o’clock this morning. There was a sign on the 
door, ‘No bread to-day.’ What do you think about it?” 

He did not know what to think. 

Great crowds walked the streets. Bands of police had 
patrolled them. Morning brought no bread and again the 
babel of tongues. To-night there would be Cossacks. They 
had always been the tools of the police and the Government. 

Again great crowds filled the streets. The police issued an 
order to the effect that everyone must be indoors by eleven 
o’clock, and the Cossacks made their appearance to enforce it. 
They patrolled in full equipment, lance stripped of its 
pennon, revolver, carbine, sabre, and nine-lashed whip with 
the leaden pellets at the end of each lash, ready for use; now 
galloping up and down; now ranging their horses in rows 
along the sidewalks, thereby forcing the pedestrians to the 
street, where they could be rushed at will; and now dashing 
with crackling whips at some corner group, scattering it like 
a pile of leaves before the tundra winds. At nightfall the 
streets stretched empty and silent; even the Nevsky, which 
gleamed in the ghostly glare of a searchlight from the 
Admiralty tower like a street in the city of the dead. 



104 WINE OF FURY 

Saturday. Factories closed. Bolted shop doors lined the 
principal thoroughfares, with here and there a boarded-up 
window standing out in crude prophecy. Trams stood idle 
in the car barns, and the isvotschik drivers, with a clear field 
and no competition, fairly stuffed their garments with bills. 
The devil with them! Nothing would happen as long as 
they—the cowards—had nerve enough to remain on the streets 
and cheat the people. 

Crowds gathered, particularly on the Nevsky; quiet crowds, 
joking at the hated police, hesitating before the troops of 
turbulent Cossacks, and, eddying up and down in anxious 
curiosity; crowds flowing from side to side, now driven 
against the buildings by the clatter of horses’ hoofs on the 
pavements, and how scattered to the side-streets by a direct 
rush; a curious, smiling, determined crowd, capable of any¬ 
thing. What would come? 

A knot gathered at the corner by the great hotel where 
lived the rich in luxury, and before the windows of the cake- 
shop and restaurant with its tempting display of cakes and 
assorted sweets. How good they looked! And yet how ex¬ 
pensive! Suddenly there came the tinkle of broken glass. 
The noise drew a crowd, and the crowd the police, and in 
the police a desire to show authority. Shots rang out. A 
man and a woman crumpled to the sidewalk before the eyes 
of the frightened spectators, who, fascinated by the spreading 
splotches of red on the white snow, seemed frozen in their 
tracks, and were almost run down by the crashing hoofs of 
the Cossacks attracted to the place like animals by the smell 
of blood. They cleared the street. The bodies were carried 
off, the jagged window boarded up, and the shattered glass 
and clotted snow carefully cleaned away. But the story 
spread from mouth to mouth how people had tried to get 
bread and had been met with lead from the Tsar’s men. From 
district to district it went, frightening some from the streets, 
making others bold. The latter met a doubled patrol and 
the sound of machine guns spitting into the air from the roofs 
of buildings. What would happen? If only the soldiers 


THE AWAKENING 105 

would act! If only they would oppose the Cossacks and the 
police! 

Of all this Foma knew little. He had long ago grown sick 
of the talk. At the evening mess he sat alone in one corner, 
and it was not until he noticed a group which grew con¬ 
tinually larger about the table at the other end of the hall 
where Vletsky sat that he got up and sauntered down to join 
it and listen. Vletsky talked in his exhorting tone, empha¬ 
sising his words by rapping on the table-top with his wooden 
spoon. “It is 1905 over again,” he was saying. “How our 
fathers hoped and prayed the chance would come once more 
when they could profit by the mistakes of that time, rush out 
to combat the police and the Cossacks with the people, to 
protect them from bullets and whips; and now the time has 
come, and we, their children, are afraid, hold back even as 
they did. We remain inside like puppies because we are 
ordered to, while out in the streets our people die. Our people 
who only want to be free, who could be free if we would help 
them. Do we help them, comrades? Or do we stupidly 
stand by while the leaden lash of the Cossack whip cracks 
over their backs, while the iron hand of the police forces them 
back like slaves to work their hearts out for these aristocrats 
and officers who give us orders, take our money and our lives 
at will? Ah, soldiers, if you are soldiers, act now, for the 
freedom of your people, for your own freedom, for the free¬ 
dom of your children!” 

An awkward silence followed this exhortation. The men 
looked at each other inquiringly, not knowing what to do. 
VIetsky’s watery little eyes glistened at them in the lamp¬ 
light. 

Then a voice broke the silence, saying in a matter-of-fact 
way: “But I have no children that I know of. I am not even 
married, and if I go out I may get killed, and then what good 
will my freedom do me or my children who are not yet alive?” 

Foma joined in the laugh that went up at this remark. 
“A clever fellow,” he thought. “What he says is true. Free¬ 
dom is no good to a dead man.” 


106 


WINE OF FURY 


XIX 

During the day it had lessened David’s worries to consider 
that he was to spend the evening with the Dukharins. He 
had looked forward to sharing the feeling of repose which 
Natalie seemed to have distributed over their home despite 
the Princess’ nervous artificiality. It was an invitation of 
long standing for himself and Radkin to dine and indulge 
in one of the pleasant evenings of casual conversation which 
had of late been few because of the demands of his business. 

Business had developed in excess of his dreams. He seemed 
to have begun his work at the psychological moment. Each 
day brought a steady volume of new accounts. Each 
evening he spent some time in contemplating new and roseate 
financial projects. The balance-sheet already showed figures 
which had been the estimate for a year’s operations. 

His chief worries continued to he the gold and Radkin. 
His negotiations to have the bullion transferred to the vaults 
of other banks had not been successful. He had already 
begun to think that he had been duped into accepting the 
metal, the possession of which he could not acknowledge to 
the Government authorities without incurring their suspicions 
of his having it in his possession illegally. Government 
rulings and regulations complicated the matter. 

Meanwhile his apprehension mounted as the agitation in 
the streets increased. He had doubled the guard at the build¬ 
ing. But little good that would do in case of trouble on a 
large scale. If there should be riots, might not the rioters 
break in, overpower the guard and seize the gold which 
was the guarantee of one of his most important transactions? 
The possibility haunted him. It would continue to do so as 
long as the stuff remained in the building. He realised this 
for the thousandth time and for the thousandth time resolved 
to increase his efforts to dispose of it safely. 

Radkin. Again and again he had been tempted to de- 


THEAWAKENING 107 

nounce the man, but their agreement and his promise to 
Natalie held him from such a course. He did, however, 
resolve to take advantage of their agreement and rid himself 
of the man he did not understand as soon as possible. 
Particularly so at this time of tension, when police efforts had 
redoubled and when action against suspected enemies of the 
throne was ruthless. 

Radkin was walking with him to the Dukharins. It was 
quite dark and intensely cold. Their rubbered shoes creaked 
in the dry air. They walked out on the great bridge which 
lost itself in a soaring flight to the opposite shore. The sub¬ 
dued glow from the clusters of lights burned too weakly to 
blend the circles of illumination on the snow-covered ice far 
below, and as he strode along David noticed how these circles 
and the occasional lines of foot-tracks cutting across them, 
where children had been on the ice, stood out like giant prob¬ 
lems in geometry. 

From the corner of his eye he saw that Radkin had dropped 
his chin into his fur collar as he did when thinking deeply. 
He wondered what the man’s thoughts were. He also 
wondered what connection the man had had with the events 
of the last few days. He dared not ask. 

A Cossack patrol, lances at rest, clattered by, partly in the 
street and partly on the sidewalk, insolently crowding the 
two pedestrians to the rail. David watched them out of sight 
in the darkness. They brought to mind the crowds he had 
seen on the Nevsky the day previous and the redoubled 
guards. “Do you think anything will happen?” he queried. 

Radkin gave no sign that he had heard. He walked in 
silence, his chin thrust into the fur collar of his coat. David 
did not comprehend the vital nature of his question. Radkin’s 
aim in coming to Petrograd was to cause something to 
happen.” He was risking his life daily that something might 
happen. He had spent twelve years of it in prison for trying 
to make something happen. This was the effort that had 
seemed most likely to succeed. And David little realised 
that he had virtually asked the man for a verdict on his life s 


108 WINE OF FURY 

work in the casual tone of one asking an opinion about the 

weather. 

They walked on in silence. Radkin walked powerfully, each 
step a vigorous push which sent him along at deceiving speed. 
He looked steadily ahead into the fathomless sky. David 
glanced away from him, assuming that his question had gone 
unnoted. Suddenly three clear, incisive words crystallised 
in the silent darkness: “I think not.” 

David started. Radkin had spoken the words of course, but 
the manner of their speaking! They glittered against the 
sombre background and registered in David’s brain as though 
stars composed each letter. “I think not.” “Or,” he thought, 
as he repeated the words to himself and other thoughts came 
to mind, “they seemed to glow with a cold incandescence 
generated by the current of fact in conflict with the resistance 
of will.” Radkin admitted failure, then. And it was no 
doubt the final failure. There would never be so auspicious 
a time as the present to start an uprising against the Imperial 
system. Wars, their hardships and mass sentiment, did not 
come often in a lifetime. Radkin saw the goal to which he 
had devoted his body and soul receding from him unattained— 
unattainable. Yet he could admit the fact and walk calmly 
across the city for dinner and conversation with friends. 
David marvelled. 

Radkin spoke again. “Nothing will happen. There was 
a time when I thought otherwise. When I was certain that 
the sleeping Russian giant would stir. I was convinced that 
this was to be the hour of the awakening. But now, so near 
that hour, the giant still sleeps. The facts are these. No 
uprising can succeed without armed force opposed to the 
armed force of the Tsar—the police and the Cossacks. The 
only available armed force is the soldiery stationed here in 
Petrograd. I am frankly telling you that we have been con¬ 
centrating our efforts to incite opposition among them.” He 
stopped for a moment to clear his throat, and when he raised 
his voice again there was an edge of vehemence in it. “They 
are a careless, unambitious, selfish and”—he caught himself— 


THE AWAKENING 109 

“and lovable lot,” he said, with a gentle smile barely discern¬ 
ible in the uncertain light. “They do not like to fight. They 
only wish to live and avoid trouble. Appeal for things other¬ 
wise has no effect. Theirs is the trusting conservatism of 
simplicity.” He paused reflectively and looked up at the 
restless, twisting clouds overhead. “They do not understand,” 
he continued softly, and then the only unrestrained emotion 
David had ever seen him display burst forth as he raised his 
hands to the impatient clouds and cried: “Help them to 
understand!” His hands fell to his sides in a slow gesture 
of futility as he turned, saying: “No, nothing will happen. 
Your millions are safe.” 

The bitter words ate their way to David’s secret thoughts and 
this interpretation of his attitude aroused him. He knew too 
little of Russia to sympathise with Radkin and his efforts. He 
felt it customary to think of Russia as unreasonably oppressed, 
just as one postulates tall buildings in New York. But since 
living here he had begun to wonder whether tyranny or 
oppression were not the only means of driving the people to 
action. Certainly he had met able men who thought so. 
General Dukharin, for instance. Then, too, he could scarcely 
help being selfish to the extent of showing concern for the 
security of his efforts. This enterprise which he had embarked 
upon was to he his life’s work, and he knew that trouble of a 
revolutionary nature in the city might easily cause its with¬ 
drawal. He was not to blame for- 

“You don’t blame me for-•” 

“Certainly not,” interrupted Radkin. “I do not blame you. 
I disagree with you. But I grant that I may be quite wrong 
and you quite right. In striving to free my countrymen from 
what I and many of them consider tyranny, even though a 
government involved in a war must be frightened into it, I 
may be doing wrong; and in sticking to a more practical 
task such as yours, content with things as they are, you may 
be in the right. Who is to decide? Each for himself, and, 
perhaps, events. I seem to be failing. Perhaps I am wrong.” 

The hollow disillusionment in the voice made it impossible 


110 WINEOFFURY 

for David to speak. They proceeded in silence until they 

arrived at the Dukharins’. 

It was the first time David had seen the Dukharins since the 
meeting at the opera where Anna had refused to meet Naritza. 
Natalie’s greeting was, as always, the same frank pleasure, 
the same cordial ease. As he sat beside her on the divan, 
the play of glowing light and soft shadow on the gentle mould 
of her features fascinated him, and the presence of her spirit, 
as clear as a crystal cube, seemed the only immutable fact in 
the surrounding world of potential chaos. 

Her first question concerned Radkin, who sat across the 
room talking with the Princess. “I have gone no further 
with it,” he said. “As far as I know he has lived up to his 
part of our agreement, and I intend to do likewise, as I 
promised you, and keep his identity from the police. Things 
are happening, however, which make me wish to release him 
from his connection with the bank as soon as possible. What 
complicates the matter is that he is so capable and useful. 
Sometimes I wonder what I’ll do without him. He shares 
the credit for our rapid growth.” 

Here in the conversation the wrinkled maid appeared with 
the tray of zakuskas and intimated by her manner that the 
dinner had long been ready and that it was time to begin. 

Natalie rose to call the General from his papers in the 
study. David, after following her graceful figure with his 
eyes as far as he could, turned to the Princess, who still talked 
to Radkin. His ears caught the word “Aneta.” “Did I hear 
you mention Anna?” he asked. “How is she?” 

“I was just telling Mr. Radkin about her . . . those two 
children, Anna and Alexei,” she said. “They were found 
at a small hotel in Moscow. Alexei was very ill. Pneumonia, 
or something like that. Anna had taken a doctor to him. 
The doctor says that in calling him in time Anna doubtless 
saved the boy’s life. He is still very sick. They are worried 
about him. Anna is in bed—nervousness and a slight cold.” 
She paused and then added: “What to say to the child ... I 
don’t know.” 


THE AWAKENING 111 

“I suggest . . . nothing,” interjected Natalie, preceding her 
father into the room. “Enough’s been said already ... by 
others. Anna has saved a life. That outweighs everything 
else.” 

“I wonder if it does outweigh the damage the talk has 
done?” queried the Princess. 

“Certainly,” replied Natalie with some spirit. “By far. 
What damage can the chatter do us? We are the same people 
as before. Besides, from what I have heard lately, the trend 
of it has been quite in Anna’s favour. She is applauded as 
a brave girl. Naritza is considered to have gone too far in 
this.” 

At this juncture the General’s huge form loomed in the 
doorway, his heavy features expanded in a smile. To David, 
his legs in their blue, red-striped trousers looked longer and 
his body more rotund than ever. “Well, well,” he shouted, 
“welcome to you—both.” He shook hands heartily. Surprise 
showed on his face as he regarded them. “You look pale 
and you’re working too hard, both of you. You’ve lost 
weight. It won’t do. You must come to see us more often. 
We’ll give you something else besides your finance to think 
about and fatten you up too—won’t we, Mania?” he inquired 
of the old servant, who now presented the tray of zakuskas 
to each. She beamed her pleasure at thus being included in 
the conversation. 

They went through the graceful ceremony of drinking a 
toast proposed by the General and proceeded to the dining¬ 
room. David seated himself and looked about with a sense 
of satisfaction. These people were his friends. They would 
be friends no matter what might happen. It was good to 
he with them again. He had not realised previously the 
length of time intervening between his visits. What had he 
been doing, what had he accomplished that was more important 
than friendship? 

The dinner, replete with the highly seasoned dishes for 
which David had found the Russians to be justly famous, 
progressed smoothly. Conversation naturally turned to the 


112 WINEOFFURY 

disturbances in the streets. The General, as usual, had his 
definite opinions which he expressed forcibly. “Have these 
people no sense!” he exclaimed, thumping his fat fist on the 
table to the rattle and chink of the china and silver. “Can’t 
they see that by agitating for their political rights—whatever 
they are—at this time, they are hindering the Government when 
it is engaged in a task vital to the entire nation? The safety 
of the empire is threatened by Germany, and here these people 
are mewling over internal politics! It’s damnable-” 

“My dear, my dear,” interrupted the Princess, pleadingly 
taking the General by the sleeve. “Not so much noise, 
please.” 

“I know, my dear,” he replied. “But it shows a damnable 
lack of foresight.” 

“Well,” said Natalie, “it may be damnable, but they 
certainly have a right to some word in the choice of the 
leaders who direct their sacrifices. That right is all they 
ask. This whole situation, the crowds in the streets, the 
general strike, the stirring of sentiment against the Government 
all over the empire could be settled in an afternoon if the 
Tsar would but issue a proclamation making the Cabinet 
responsible for its actions to the elected representatives of 
the Russian people—the Duma.” 

“That may be,” reiterated her father; “but if their bullying 
tactics succeeded this time, they would be tried again and 
again. And the people haven’t the leaders to hold them 
together. They would split up into opposing factions and 
Russia would fall to pieces. The peasants are a careless, lazy, 
easy-going, exasperating lot that want none of the Govern¬ 
ment—only to be let alone. They do not understand govern¬ 
ment enough to disapprove intelligently with this one or to 
advocate an alternative.” The General stopped and, as was 
his custom, looked somewhat belligerently about the table 
as though seeking out possible dissenters for a surprise 
attack. 

Radkin spoke, some of the former vehemence in the tone 
of his voice, which throughout the evening had seemed a 



THE AWAKENING 113 

passionless echo of its former self. “Nevertheless, General,” 
he said evenly, “the Russian people are convinced that they 
themselves can somehow govern better.” 

The renewal of Radkin’s interest exhibited in the vibrancy 
of his voice attracted David’s attention to him. As he spoke, 
the man leaned forward over the white cloth into the light 
of the chandelier. He spoke passionately, as one does in 
voicing an expression of faith. These words were evidently 
his faith in his people. In him there was none of the egoism 
of the reformist mind which, in adversity, leads enthusiasm 
for a cause to weaken faith in its subjects. David, knowing 
his past, both remote and immediate, caught in Radkin’s 
utterance the idealist’s desperate adherence to his principle 
after the opportunity for its fulfilment had passed. 

“Do it better?” queried the General, always ready to take 
up the cudgel in arguments. “What kind of government 
would do it better? I hope you’re not an advocate of 
democracy, or republicanism, or whatever you call it that you 
have in the United States. You are accustomed to think of 
it as so much better than ours, but is it? Consider it dis¬ 
interestedly. Your Government is the most wasteful in the 
world. And shockingly inefficient for a nation of the big 
business men you pride yourself in being. You waste your 
money, your national resources, and, worst of all, your 
people’s time. It is not strong. It does not protect the 
weak. You lynch people because of their colour. You per¬ 
mit children to work in mines and factories. You are young, 
yet you have fought more wars in the last hundred years than 
any first-rate nation of Europe. I’m casting no aspersions 
at your country or your people—I admire both tremendously. 
Your achievements in certain fields are great. But you are 
a little too sure of yourselves, as is the way with youth. You 
are only one hundred and forty-four years old. In the 
tremendous hour of history that is but a second. You have 
a great way yet to go. You can go all of it in error. I 
hope and believe not, but it is possible. There is-” 

He stopped, interrupted by the hurried entrance of Mania, 



114 WINE OF FURY 

the maid, who hastened to the Princess’ chair, greatly dis¬ 
turbed and evidently at a loss for words of explanation. 
“They came right in,” she gasped, “pushed me aside. Would 

not go away-•” Further explanation was unnecessary, as 

the curtains to the hallway parted and three men stepped into 
the room. David regarded them in surprise. From their 
uniforms they were members of the police, two in the black of 
the force, and the third, a stout, tightly buttoned individual 
with ashy, jowled face and brilliantined moustache, in the 
blue-tabbed grey of an officer of considerable rank. 

The General sprang to his feet at their intrusion. “What 
does this mean?” he thundered at the leader of the two men. 
“How dare you force your way into my home?” 

“The authority has been given me-” began the police 

officer. 

“What authority?” interrupted the General. “Who has 
the authority to say that the police shall enter the home of 
General Dukharin againt his will. Who, I say?” He ad¬ 
vanced upon the little party of invaders, who stood im¬ 
movable, their swords held at their sides. 

The back of the leader turned to the table as he spoke 
to the General in a low voice. David heard the words: 
“I have orders from-” He did not hear the name. 

It evidently meant something to the General. He stepped 
hack, pulled his beard for a moment and said questioningly: 
“Well?” 

“It will require but a moment, sir,” spoke the police 
officer. “Our business is with these two gentlemen.” He 
indicated Radkin and David. 

They both rose at being thus pointed out. 

The officer looked closely at Radkin. . “Are you or are you 
not Peter Radkin?” he demanded in a sibilant voice. 

All eyes turned to him called Radkin. He stood with both 
powerful hands gripping the top of his chair. Full in the 
light, his triangular face appeared with startling forcefulness, 
showing the Y of his narrow nose and angled eyebrows, the 
stiff swell of black hair from the sheer forehead and white 


THE AWAKENING 115 

skin, through which, as though transparent, the blue veins of 
temples and brow shone like pale embroidery. “Certainly 
I am,” he replied incisively. “Who else could I be?” 

The officer contemplated him for a moment, with, it seemed 
to David, an air of mock conviction. “That is not necessary. 
If you are not Peter Radkin, we know well who you are.” He 
turned to David. “You will perhaps be so kind as to confirm 
this gentleman’s statement. He belongs to the institution of 
which you are the head in Russia, I believe. Is he Peter 
Radkin?” 

The swift directness of the question left David no time for 
reflection. All those faculties of decision, determination and 
fixity of purpose which had been shaped and polished in the 
years of his education and business experience sprang to their 
mental stations. His mind knew no confusion. Gone were 
all the irrevelancies of the situation—his companions of the 
dinner rising from the table, his respect for Radkin and con¬ 
cern for what others, even Natalie, might think of his action. 
They might as well not have been. Things simplified and 
resolved into but two pictures which registered in his mind: 
one the gleaming pyramid of gold as it had looked that day in 
his office, the solidified expression of his responsibility; the 
other the solemn row of officials as they sat on the platform of 
the great office in New York, impersonal, unimaginative and 
pragmatic. These he saw with startling clarity, aware the 
while that the police lieutenant was speaking in his suave, 
sibilant tones. “In times like the present, sir, it is necessary 
that we be doubly vigilant and doubly severe. There are those 
who would destroy us all. We have to keep close watch. 
The proper word from you, Mr. Rand, and our little intrusion 
will be over. It shall, of course, be a true word. The truth 
is doubly necessary at such times and Mr. Rand has too much 
at stake here in Russia for anything but that?” 

“Too much at stake.” The words seemed like a title to 
the two pictures still vivid in his mind. There was only one 
thing to say. The risk was too great even to stand by Radkin 
on the chance that the police could not otherwise disclose his 


116 WINE OF FURY 

identity. The fact that the truth also happened to be expedient 
reinforced his decision. The words came from his compressed 
lips slowly like drops of cold, heavy acid: “I have but lately 
learned that he is not Peter Radkin.” 

Natalie’s voice rang in his ears. “David!” she cried, and 
in that one vibrant word he recognised the depth of her feeling 
for him and the intensity of her horror at his action. It set 
free the floods of emotion which discipline had dammed. 
They surged over him and for a moment he realised vaguely 
the appearance to others of what he had done. His swift 
glance about him disclosed only the ring of faces shining in 
the light like twisted, tragic masks. He heard the police 
officer say with emphasis upon the name: “We shall have 
to ask you to accompany us, Mr. Radkin.” He was aware 
that Radkin had walked calmly to a place between the two 
guards. He approached Radkin. “I’ll go to the court,” he 
exclaimed. “I’ll use my influence at the ministries, I’ll de¬ 
fend you at the trial-” The flatness of his assurance 

stopped him. 

Radkin stared at him in scorn. “Court?” he queried. 
“Trial? There is no court. There will be no trial. This 
is Russia. It is evident that you have little comprehension 
of the forces in which you are involve’d. If you had, you 
might have selected a swifter means of sending me to my death. 
Perhaps in the future, you will learn to comprehend more.” 
He walked to the curtained door followed by his three captors. 
Turning again, he bowed to the Princess and Natalie and dis¬ 
appeared. In a few seconds the outer door closed with a 
snap that sounded like the shot of a gun in the silence of the 
room. 

David looked at Natalie. The trace of vivid horror in her 
face drove him from her. He approached the Princess and 
General Dukharin, his mind a vast incoherence. There were 
words. He mumbled many. The awkwardness of the 
situation overwhelmed him. He included “Good-night” in 
his mumblings and hurried to the entrance hall. Alone he 
struggled into his coat and stumbled to the sidewalk. 


THE AWAKENING 117 

The cold air, the insistent snow, the passage of people in 
the street—of all these things he had no consciousness as he 
walked rapidly homeward. On one of the main streets he 
was forced with the other pedestrians to walk between a 
double row of Cossacks, their horses drawn up on the pave¬ 
ment; he was distinctly conscious of their lances bristling 
beside him, each keen spike, it seemed, pointed him out like 
a shining finger. 


XX 

Sunday came out of the red haze of Saturday. Foma 
received permission to visit the cathedral in the morning and 
he set out eagerly in order to see as much as possible. The 
sun shone gloriously—strange for this time of year—a huge 
burnished disc low down on the horizon. The same idle, 
curious crowds filled the streets as during the last few days; 
so many people that it seemed all the buildings must be as 
empty as the cathedral. He did not remain for the service 
before the ikon, but hastened across the bridge to Masha’s 
house. 

Excitedly she told him of all she had seen happen, and in 
spite of his protests that it might be impossible she made him 
promise to try to meet her at eight o’clock that evening at the 
corner of the Nevsky and the Sadovia streets. “They say it 
is the last night,” she said, as though the whole thing had been 
a theatrical performance. “There seems to be no one to fight 
the police; the people are afraid and the strikers will go back 
to work rather than go to the front. So we must see what 
happens to-night. At eight o’clock, then, at the Nevsky and 
Sadovia.” 

In the barracks the afternoon took its listless course. The 
men went about their appointed tasks, slept at odd moments, 
or gathered in groups to talk and sing. 

A soldier in one group had an accordion. He played softly 
the accompaniment to the folk-songs which the men sang one 


118 WINEOFFURY 

after the other. The sweet melancholy of the music laden 
with so many reminiscences for every soldier recruited from 
the country districts sent many of them off alone to dream 
over those days now left so far behind. 

One of the songs brought fond memories to Foma: 

“Tell me, little mother, why I may not love 
The sweetest little lass in all the land? 

She’s winsome and she’s pretty, and myself?—I’m not so bad. 

And the fairy’s tied our hearts with a golden strand.” 

He recalled how he had practised the song while alone, 
intending to sing it to Masha some sunny day when they 
walked together in the fields and how the necessary courage 
had never been his. He wished that she were with him to 
hear so that he might tell her by touching her moist hand 
that the words were meant for her. 

Thus the long dark afternoon wore on into the darker 
evening and not until quite late did disturbing elements enter. 
Then there seemed to be uneasiness among the officers in 
command. They, in company with strangers, strode through, 
keeping the men jumping to attention. There were in¬ 
spections, nervous conferences and much issuing of orders. 

In the course of it Foma noticed that Vletsky, who seemed 
to have been permitted outside the barracks, had returned. 
He first saw him slinking from one of his chosen friends to 
another whispering a few words which made each start in 
amazement. A group gathered in subdued discussion. Foma 
sauntered over to hear this surprising news. “What is it?” 
he asked. 

Vletsky turned on him with a snarl. One of the others, 
unheeding the nudges from the elbows of the man beside him, 
said fiercely: “Peter Alexandrovitch has been arrested. The 
police took him last night. Someone has betrayed him. We 
can do nothing now.” 

“Peter Alexandrovitch? Who is He?” queried Foma. 

The soldier looked at him in amazement and then said 


THE AWAKENING 119 

solemnly: “He is called Peter Alexandrovitch Radkin. He 
is the bravest man in the world. He was exiled from Russia. 
He came back to help lead the revolution. He has been be¬ 
trayed. He-■” 

“Don’t bother with the stupid lout,” exclaimed Vletsky. 
“If he doesn’t know, don’t tell him. If he weren’t so dumb, 
I’d say he told the police himself.” 

“Radkin? Revolution?” queried Foma. “I never heard 
of him. I didn’t know anyone wanted a revolution now. 
The soldiers don’t. You know that. It would lose the war 
for us. We should have to work for the Germans.” 

“That’s right, Foma Ivanovitch. You speak well, Foma 
Ivanovitch,” said others of the company, joining the circle 
to hear the news. 

Vletsky changed the subject. “There has been much ex¬ 
citement in the streets,” he said. “There were great crowds 
on the Nevsky. The order came to clear it. The warning 
was given, carried out, and the street was empty. Police 
stood at all corners. A * group of people tried to cross in 
spite of the police. A bugle called, a line of police dropped 
to the snow from curb to curb, their guns crashed, and the 
lead swished, dropping some in their tracks, frightening 
others back to the side-streets. It has been like that all after¬ 
noon. It’s very bad. If we only- What’s that?” 

The men all jumped to their feet as the command to “Fall 
in!” rang through the hall, and in the rush for his great¬ 
coat, cartridge-case and rifle Foma noticed with a smile that 
Vletsky was among the first to take his place in line. 

The officers entered, Marinoff in the lead. With his hands 
clasped behind his back and his chin thrust forward, he walked 
hurriedly up and down the hall noting that every belt-buckle 
was clasped, every greatcoat buttoned and every hat at the 
proper rakish tilt. He then stepped back to the lamplight. 

“Soldiers,” he said, “it is a difficult task we have to do to¬ 
night, one which will demand the utmost of us as soldiers of 
the Tsar. We go to the square at the corner of the Nevsky 
and the Sadovia, where it is reported great and unruly crowds 




120 WINE OF FURY 

have gathered. They shall be ordered to disperse; if they 
comply, all will be well; if not, we must make them, even 
if we have to fire upon them, our own people.” 

There followed a pause, during which the speaker looked 
quickly over the troops; a pause which gave time for the words 
to fix themselves in Foma’s comprehension. “Sadovia and 
Nevsky,” he thought, “perhaps to shoot. . . . Masha will be 
there!” 

The thought struck him with blinding force and in the 
darkness of his sluggish mind his imagination, true to its 
Slavic instinct, raced to the absolute extreme and depicted 
in colours of fire what might be—the crossing jammed with 
people, his company stretched full length across the street, 
its automatic reaction to the command to shoot, the spurts 
of flame, and the cries of the dying; in the midst of it he 
seemed to see Masha fall, clutching at a red blotch on her 
soft white neck, a red blotch caused by the bullet from his 
own gun which he had been unable to withhold; and over it 
all he saw hovering as in a mist the figure of an inexorable 
fate with a sardonic face that was Marinoff’s pointing 
this out to him as inevitable; heard it command to shoot 
again. From his very soul the protest surged to meet the 
many forces of reaction, patience, obedience and fear, beaten 
into the fibre of him by years of repressive discipline; they 
clashed and for a horrible second he struggled in choas. Then 
his voice came, “No! No! We must not do that!” The 
face of Marinoff came closer to him in the mist and the voice 
he knew so well snapped: “Private Foma Ivanovitch Pashkin, 
you will obey, and upon completion of this duty you will 
return to the barracks and report yourself under arrest for 
insubordination.” Then, in louder tones, he heard: “Com¬ 
pany, shoulder arms. Forward-” 

“No,” said Foma stolidly, and his mighty arm thrust his 
gleaming bayonet at the throat below the face hovering in 
the mist. How easily it went in! Just like a German! 
Strange! Hands tore at it; the face sank slowly; and some¬ 
thing seemed to pull him down with it. The men pressed 


THE AWAKENING 121 

about him. He heard the scraping of their hoots and their 
excited whisperings. The face disappeared. He wrenched 
at his gun and stood up straight to look around. These 
faces? He knew them all; they were the men of his company. 
There was no one else. The mist had gone. Where was he? 
What kind of a trick was this? He was in the barracks. His 
hand seemed to stick to the bayonet. He looked at his 
fingers and moved them experimentally. They were red. 
His glance fell to the white face on the floor, staring full 
into the glare of the lamp. It was Marinoff huddled there. 
He looked at the body stupidly. His companions came closer. 
“Now you have done it, Foma Ivanovitch,” said one, looking 
in awe at the upturned face. “Ah!” said another, “you have 
killed an officer. You will be punished. They will kill 
you.” 

“Who will do that?” demanded Foma. 

“The other officers,” came the reply. 

“They dare not. They are afraid. See, they have run 
away,” said Foma, standing on tiptoe and pointing to the 
open door of the barracks. Certainly, there were no officers in 
sight. 

“Why has he done it?” asked someone in the crowd. 

“For revenge,” answered Vletsky; “because Marinoff 
struck him in the face and beat him with the whip.” 

“Because,” spoke Foma, ignoring Vletsky’s insinuation, “I 
did not want to kill Masha. She waits for me at the corner 
of the Nevsky and the Sadovia.” 

“It is no use, then,” someone remarked, “because if we do 
not go there the commandant of the city will order another 
company to do so. It is too bad-” 

“They shall not go,” cried Foma, cutting him short and 
tearing his way through the surrounding men. “We shall 
stop them. Come! We shall go to them all; they shall join 
us; and we shall stop this killing of our own people. 
Follow me!” and he raced down the long hall for the door¬ 
way. To a man, they followed him. 

From barracks to barracks they ran, opening the great doors, 


122 WINE OF FURY 

hurriedly questioning and explaining, talking at the bayonet’s 
point to officers, to whom was given life for agreement, death 
for protest. Few protested; and the crowd’s numbers grew 
steadily. There were many leaders now. Some hastened 
away to tell the news to distant friends in barracks and 
enlist their aid. Others ran from house to house. 

Gradually all over the sprawling city similar bands formed 
to set abroad on similar errands. Men came to join from 
houses, armed with motley guns, women with revolvers and 
relic swords, children with knives and sticks; all hastened 
to help in the hunt of the police, which spread from street 
to street. Death to the police, no quarter, and the Cossacks 
also if they do not join! 

The police, hopelessly outnumbered, flee their posts, gather 
in groups, muster their weapons and fight a retreat to buildings 
and roofs from whence they scatter their fire upon the crowds 
below. But vainly before the augmented resources of the 
attackers. Answering fire seeks out the fugitives from 
surrounding buildings where the soldiers and citizens, having 
separated for protection, shoot from doorway, window and 
roof. Their numbers increase steadily. Garages are thrown 
open, cars confiscated, rumbling motor trucks, bullet-bodied 
runabouts and glistening limousines crowded to capacity, 
bristling with arms, men stretched at full length behind their 
bayoneted rifles on the running boards, careen down the 
streets. Suddenly they stop, the occupants swarm to the 
pavements, seek the shelter of corners, lamp-posts and door¬ 
ways, and fire hectically at the house-top, from which comes 
the ripping, answering hail of police machine-gun fire. A 
dash across the open street, the shivering of a door, and the 
eager ones climb to the roof to continue the fight. Here out¬ 
numbered, the police cannot resist long, and amid exultant 
*shouts, one by one, forced to the edge at the bayonet’s point 
they crash to the street and the stoic curiosity of the gathering 
crowds below. 

Its members look about questioningly. What next? What 
to do? There is no one to say. They glance apprehensively 


THE AWAKENING 123 

at the corners. At any moment a company of the Tsar’s 
soldiery or a troop of Cossacks may sweep forth and shoot 
and slash them to bits with superior weapons. Suggestions 
are plentiful. Arguments start. A new-comer stumbles 
breathlessly from a side-street. “The police are winning 
at the Litainia Arsenal,” he gasps. “The Arsenal. To the 
Litainia Arsenal, comrades!” The cry is taken up; and off 
they go on foot or clinging to the thumping motors—a 
straggling mass, spreading the width of streets and sidewalks. 
At the Arsenal the crackle of rifle-fire, the spurts of flame 
in the darkness is their greeting. Here, with plenty of arms, 
ammunition, food and the strongest of defences the police are 
prepared for a stubborn battle. Cheers rise from the groups 
of attackers sheltered in doorways and windows at the sight 
and sound of the reinforcements. A veritable blizzard of 
bullets sweeps over the great building from surrounding 
shelters. The heavy wooden doors spit splinters under the 
blows of the invisible leaden fists beating at them with such 
insistent savagery, and the murky windows become but jagged 
geometries of black space in which mingle the yells of the 
besiegers and the cries of the wounded. Slowly the police 
retreat to the rear of the building, slowly the besiegers pro¬ 
gress, and slowly, somehow, the great doors are swung open 
to admit the crowds with their shouts of frantic glee. A 
quick despatch of the few defenders, a pursuit—by some—of 
those who fled, a consolidation of the position by dragging 
three small howitzers found therein to a barricade of boxes 
and doors hastily flung across the street, and a swift search 
for more such easy worlds to conquer. 

Across the street the grim solidarity of the Law Courts 
building as the symbol of justice in Russia frowns upon this 
violence. There is an explosive rush. In go the windows, 
down come the doors and, scattered before the cyclone of long 
pent-up rage, the records of years of the law’s administration 
fly in clouds of white from the gaping windows to the street, 
where fire wipes them out for ever. It spreads to the build¬ 
ing itself. The flames draw crowds, and with them from 




124 WINE OF FURY 

other sections of the city comes news of further success. 
Other blazes spring up, each a nest of the police. Soon these 
inexorable records which had enabled the oppressors to seize 
at will almost any person in the empire vanish in the con¬ 
flagration and under the heels of the spectators. The pyro¬ 
technics of its destruction being brighter, the Law Courts 
become the centre of the crowd’s delight. The fire from it 
is an offering to victory and far into the night it blazes red 
against the sky, erupting sheaves of white which disintegrate, 
scatter and fall, only to be fired and tossed higher by the 
dancing, leaping flames. 

The giant had awakened and was lurching to his feet. 

With the first noises of the outbreak David hastened to his 
office. Members of his staff did likewise, and the little band 
remained on guard through two nights and days, sleeping on 
the hard gilded divans and eating what thin cabbage soup and 
sugarless tea the old caretaker’s wife could prepare. 

Although in an active part of the city, their building was 
little disturbed. Groups ran heavily round its corner, some¬ 
times firing up the quay. A disabled truck loaded with 
soldiers displaying numerous crude red flags was abandoned 
in the street before the main entrance. In the night there 
was a furious crackle of rifle shots at a corner of the great 
parade-grounds; it lasted ten minutes and diminished into 
silence. 

Only once were they intruded upon. Late in the night they 
lounged in the ornate divans of the entry, dark save for a 
candle burning on a gilt and marble table and the pulsing 
fire of their cigarettes. A group of soldiers paused on the 
steps outside engaged in muffled conversation. They beat upon 
the door. David opened it and confronted the leader. Despite 
the dim light, he was able to make out the features of the 
young giant before him. With a start he noted that it was 
the soldier he had seen ejected from the Summer Garden 
for eating the sunflower seeds, whom he and Natalie had noted 
walking with the new Dukharin maid, and whom he had heard 


THEAWAKENING 125 

addressed as Foma Ivanovitch. He wondered at the trick of 
chance which had brought them thus together. “What do 
you want?” he asked in his best Russian. 

“Police,” replied the intruder. “We are chasing the police. 
Did any run in here to hide?” 

“No,” said David, “none.” 

The soldier looked about as his eyes grew accustomed to 
the dusk. “What’s up here?” he demanded, starting for the 
marble stairs which wound up into the darkness. David did 
not move. Had he done so Foma would have mounted the 
stairs. 

“Nothing,” replied David. “No police. There are none 
in the building. Some ran by not long ago, but none came 
in. You will waste your time up there.” 

“It does not matter,” said Foma Ivanovitch to the men, 
who had likewise moved towards the stairs. “What is this 
here?” he asked. 

“This is a bank, an American bank,” replied David. 

“American?” queried Foma in surprise. “Now what do 
you think of that?” he exclaimed to his fellows. “We are 
in an American bank. Are you an American?” he resumed 
after a pause. 

“Yes. We all are here.” 

Foma moved back in wonder. Americans! These were 
the first he had ever seen. He had heard his father speak 
of them, great people, free people. They were strange- 
looking, no beards, young, it seemed, like himself. Why were 
they in Russia? 

David saw the question wrinkle his forehead. The 
questioning expression he had noted when he had seen the 
boy ejected from the Summer Garden reappeared in the 
broad, open face. “What is it that you wish now?” he 
asked, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke. 

Foma did not know. His question had not had time to 
resolve itself into words. The scent of the smoke came to 
him. It was good. 

“Please, a little cigarette,” he stated simply. 


126 WINE OF FURY 

Instantly cigarettes were forced into his hands and into the 
hands of his men, fistfuls of them. Matches flared in the 
darkness and they inhaled deep draughts of the sweet, cool 
smoke. 

“Good,” exclaimed Foma Ivanovitch, “very good. Thank 
you. Many thanks to you. Good-bye. A calm night to 
you.” 

His men echoed the words and with Foma in the lead they 
clumped from the building. Closing the door, David saw 
them standing in a group, undecided for a moment which way 
to go. As they set off up the quay, he saw Foma Ivanovitch 
exhale a puff of smoke through his nostrils, and heard him 
say: “Americans. They are fine people. Very generous.” 

“Why do you suppose they sit there all night?” queried one 
of the others. “I wonder what is upstairs they watch so 
carefully?” 

“Cigarettes. It may be,” replied Foma, as the group strode 
away. “They are good. . . .” 

Occasionally, during a lull in the spasmodic struggles, 
David and some of his men had ventured out for a short 
walk. He was worried about Radkin’s possible fate. He 
wanted to do something, to rectify the ruthless step which he 
felt necessity had forced him to take; but during the existing 
confusion it was futile to attempt to use influence at the 
ministries. Sometimes he left the building and returned to it 
in uninterrupted silence, and other times a fresh outbreak 
of musketry and machine-gun fire sent back in haste. 

On one of these ventures he got across the bridge to the 
Dukharins’. They were safe. Little had happened on the 
Kamenno-Ostroffski and the buildings were practically un¬ 
scathed. 

He learned with something of chagrin that Natalie had been 
in and out since the beginning of the trouble, helping the 
hurt here and there where she could and following the mean- 
derings of the fight as though it had all been a great, harmless 
street-show. 

This the Princess related to David in detail. She also told 


THE AWAKENING 127 

vivid tales of her own experiences; but these, as David after¬ 
wards learned, were largely the products of imaginative 
powers cultivated through years of social scheming. In real¬ 
ity, the shooting had at first sent her into semi-hysteria which 
resulted in a night of terrified tears. She had read copious 
volumes about the French Revolution and seemed to recall 
every one of its terrible incidents. A realisation of her years 
of indifference to the welfare of those below her, of neglect of 
innumerable charitable opportunities, forced her frightened 
imagination to picture her own progress to a new guillotine. 
Her tears changed to tears of thankfulness when Natalie 
brought a wounded soldier to the house for care. She has¬ 
tened to get him inside and to make the fact known with a 
fine display of confident self-righteousness. The soldiers 
would not think of injuring those who cared for the wounded. 

Strange to say, it would have been better for the peace of 
mind of the others of the family had Anna been more ill than 
exhausted. The General would have remained close to her 
room. As it was, he insisted upon striding out to see the hap¬ 
penings in the streets. It filled him with explosive wrath to 
witness the “outrages against the empire,” as he labelled the 
actions of the crowds. 

“Traitors! Upstarts! Fools!” he ejaculated as the news 
reached his ears. And often during the ensuing days he strode 
belligerently about the streets in full uniform, wearing no 
badge of red ribbon, arm-band, rosette or any symbol of a 
supporter of the uprising. 

On these walks, without fully realising it, he had half¬ 
hopeful visions of his being accosted by the rioters, of his 
bold repudiation of them, of his standing against a wall be¬ 
fore their levelled guns, of his last defiant words in support of 
the Tsar as he experienced the brave death he had always 
desired. 

But people paid little attention to him. Civilians avoided 
the military out of respect. Soldiers either pretended not to 
see him, or else saluted him smartly as before. Habit made 
him lift his hand in reply, even though the soldier wore the 


128 WINE OF FURY 

red ribbon of the opposition. No one noticed bis lack of 

such a sign. Once even he was cheered by the crowd as it 

mistook the shaking of his fist at a great red banner fluttering 

by from a truck-load of soldiers for a gesture of greeting and 

approval. 

This was too much. He thumped home and retired to his 
study, from whence, as Anna or Natalie partially opened the 
door to describe some incident of the day, there issued roars 
of “Traitors! Germans! Upstarts!” 

Meanwhile the fighting straggled on. Stray groups of po¬ 
lice barricaded with machine-guns in building and house-top 
kept up the struggle. 

Throughout the day people came forth, some to see and 
hear, others intent upon the usual daily routine. The pops and 
volleys of rifles, the grunts of machine-guns and the whine 
of bullets prompted hurried retreats to shelter, timid peerings 
about each corner, huddling behind objects far too small— 
such as lamp-posts and water-pipes—and jumps at far-away, 
unexpected reports. Of such reactions there are plenty, but 
no sign of terror or hysteria. Comes a skirmish in a square, 
people waiting to pass gather in a knot just round the corner, 
the firing ceases, the knot unravels, and the pedestrians go their 
separate ways, regarding curiously the debris and marks of 
battle. 

After two days of this, order began to emerge from chaos. 
Even the sun ventured to add its pale gleam to the general en¬ 
thusiastic brightness. Up the street came a parade to the ac¬ 
companiment of cheers and the refrain of a marching song. 
Pedestrians left the sidewalks to fall in line, and thus the pro¬ 
cession squirmed about the city, growing longer as it went, 
to the increasing volume of its music. Soldiers with army 
rifles, bodies criss-crossed with strips of bullets, labourers 
with shot-guns, clumsy hunting rifles, boys with rusted swords 
and ancient pistols, women strutting through the streets with 
knives and bayonets, and everywhere the scarlet symbol of re- 


THE AWAKENING 129 

volt-—arm-bands, rosettes, badges, and on wagons and auto¬ 
mobiles in the form of banners made from any handy bit of 
red cloth. Motors flew past with students scattering bulletins 
and hand-bills, and there ensued excited scrambling for them— 
the latest news—and gathering in listening groups. 

Another day and the general air of apprehensive excite¬ 
ment settled to one of determined confidence and delight. 
Smiles on every face, happy greetings, congratulations. 
Speeches from all corners, processions from every street and 
alley with their moving forests of scarlet banners emblazoned 
with gilt inscriptions. Even the elements were glad. The 
grey clouds split, vanished, and left the crimson sun to glow 
in celebration. 

Foma and Masha walked arm in arm across the Nicholas 
Bridge and up the quay. Words were few and useless; fre¬ 
quent glances sufficed, and additional pressure from a warm 
hand expressed unaccountable things. The sun behind them, 
from its place low on the horizon, threw long shadows on the 
snow ahead. Far up the river across another bridge a pro¬ 
cession moved slowly, its banners streaming and swaying, the 
music of its bands sounding faintly in their ears, and oc¬ 
casionally silenced altogether by the cadence of the marchers’ 
voices. 

At the corner of the Winter Palace Masha stopped before 
a poster whose white border stood out clearly against the 
red plaster. “Look at this, Foma,” she said animatedly. “I 
will read it for you,” and she began to read out the proclama¬ 
tion slowly, word for word, while Foma listened attentively: 

“ ‘Manifesto of Nicholas the Second. In the days of the great 
struggle with the outer enemy who for nearly three years has been 
striving to enslave our country, God has pleased to send upon Russia 
fresh affliction. The troubles which have begun among the people 
threaten to affect unhappily the further conduct of this stubborn war. 
The fate of Russia, the honour of the heroic army, the welfare of the 
people, the whole future of our dear country demands the carrying on 
of the war at any cost to a victorious end. . . .* ” 


130 WINE OF FURY 

Masha stopped for breath, looked at Foma and then went on 
through each word of the tragic farewell of the last Romanoff, 
not hesitating again until she came to the words: 

. . . in these decisive days in the life of Russia we consider it 
a duty of conscience to facilitate to our people the close unity and the 
rallying of all forces of the people for the earliest possible attainment 
of victory, and in accord with the Imperial Duma we have considered 
it well to abdicate the throne of the Russian Empire and to renounce the 
supreme authority!’” 

Here she stopped and looked at Foma in wonder. “Foma,” 
she said incredulously, “the Tsar is gone; there is no Tsar. 
The Revolution is successful. We are free!” 

“Revolution?” queried Foma. “What revolution?” 

“Stupid!” she exclaimed. “Why, this one. It is a revolu¬ 
tion. We are free.” 

“Oh,” said he, and lapsed into silence for a moment. “So 
we are free? We can do what we please?” 

“Yes,” she answered. 

“That is good,” he continued, taking her by the arm and 
resuming their way along the quay. “When it is warm we can 
walk through the Summer Garden and eat sunflower seeds and 
no one can stop us.” 


PART II 


THE WINE 
















}• 

















I 


T HROUGH many of the days that followed David lived 
as in a dream. Events were too much for him. 

Within the short space of a week a dynasty which had 
extended and consolidated its power during three hundred 
years, until it was regarded over the civilised world as the 
summit of autocratic achievement, had been overthrown and 
a democratic Provisional Government installed in its place. 

Autocratic royalty had built for itself a towering dais of 
power from the laths and plaster of artificiality and con¬ 
vention, surrounded itself with mirrors for counsellors and 
perched a-top in serene self-satisfaction, quite blind to the 
spectacle of the people below petitioning their desires. 

This imposing edifice with the glittering crown above had 
been an awesome sight—until venturesome ones made tentative 
thrusts and down came the structure in a cloud of splinters 
and plaster, nothing but empty framework, disclosing its 
weakness to the public view, its splinters and dust exciting 
only wonder as to why it had not been done before. 

Revolution. He smiled at the visions of carnage and pillage 
the word had previously awakened in him. Yet it had been 
a revolution and there had been little carnage and practically 
no pillage. The groups of soldiers and workmen which had 
formed and moved about the city, now rushing some hiding- 
place of the police, now hesitating to discuss the next move, 
now growing larger with the impetus of concerted action— 
such groups had accomplished in their orderly, determined 
fashion what he had imagined would require months of lawless¬ 
ness, battle and slaughter. 

What would come of this new-found freedom? David asked 
the question of a friend, a journalist. “No one knows,” came 

133 


134 WINEOFFURY 

the reply. “The result is only to be known from the perspec¬ 
tive of years; we are far too near the rush of events now to see 
anything hut surfaces, and they rarely represent the truth. 
But whatever the outcome, we must bow to Russia for the finest 
spectacle in history of the governed asserting their inalienable 
right to govern.” 

One immediate and noticeable result was in the bearing of 
the people. Their faces reflected a new spirit, as though a 
burden had been lifted from their bent shoulders and they 
faced the light for the first time. Where had been heavy looks 
and sullen, like the low-hanging clouds, now were smiles and 
faces bright with the enthusiasm of a new era. Where 
previously some form of fear tempered every political action, 
now a liberated spirit feared nothing. 

Other changes there were, of course, but none so immediately 
conspicuous as this. Except for some windows boarded up 
and others pierced with round holes radiating cracks, a few 
blackened ruins, and white bullet-spots on the red plaster of 
buildings, the material city was unchanged—the same grey 
haze over the river and the house-tops; the same white snow 
falling silently from the same slate-coloured clouds, and the 
same bitter cold. In its buildings, streets and squares life 
rambled on. Ivan Ivanovitch hauled his sledge-loads of birch- 
wood. Iliya Petrovitch reopened his little shop for business. 
And Maria Mikolaievna resumed her place in line for bread. 


II 

Of Radkin David had heard nothing since that regretful 
evening at the Dukharins’. It seemed as though the police 
had spirited him away without a trace. The picture of the 
white-faced man standing at the door between the two black- 
clad policemen, the fixity of his look, which conversely 
charged the atmosphere of the room with a repressed passion 
almost akin to fanaticism, hovered in his mind. What had 
become of the man? Had he been imprisoned? Or, as was 


T H E WI N E 135 

quite possible under the old system of things which dealt with 
political disturbances according to the rules of war, had he 
been shot that very night? Inquiry at the Ministry of Justice 
revealed nothing. 

These and many other questions often whispered in his mind, 
but he could not bring himself to make definite inquiry. With¬ 
out exactly knowing why, the subject pained him. He felt 
that he had acted justly in accordance with his standards, but 
somehow there persisted a haunting doubt of the justice of his 
standards. He tried to forget the subject, but he was beginning 
to realise that he never could forget the accusatory despair 
with which Radkin had delivered his final words: “It is 
evident that you have little comprehension of the forces in 
which you are involved.” 

Feeling thus, pleasurable surprise had been his at learning 
of Natalie’s willingness to resume their friendship where it 
had been interrupted by his exposure of Radkin. He learned 
it from the manner of her greeting. It had not been the same 
frank confidence in him that had characterised their friendship; 
a trace of apprehensive wonder—as though she were prepared 
for almost any action he might take—seemed to have displaced 
some of that; but her welcome betrayed the same eager interest 
in his affairs which he had begun to hope was more than 
casual. 

For a time he feared it would be otherwise. Her cry of his 
name that night echoed and re-echoed in his ears with painful 
clarity. During those long sleepless nights when he had sat 
awake in his office with the vicious crackle of musketry in 
his ears he came to interpret the horror in her voice. 

It disclosed her expectation of a more generous act from 
him. He realised that she would never have given him the 
information about Radkin had she not trusted him to guard 
it as his honour. The fact that he had not done so, despite 
his promise, wounded her. It must indeed have been a sincere 
feeling, the disregard for which aroused in her such despair. 

He realised, however, that only time could abolish the 
embarrassment which he at first felt in her presence. 


136 WINE OF FURY 

One day he called upon the Countess Borovskaya. 

The Countess had evidently suffered no ill effects from the 
Revolution. He had wondered just how she would react 
to this blasting of the foundations of royalty upon which she 
had based her progress. 

He saw no change. She was as striking as ever as she 
greeted him in a corner of the vast reception-room of her 
home. She wore the same close-fitting green gown in which 
he had first seen her and with which he always thought of 
her. 

She made light of the abolition of the empire. “This is 
only a provisional government,” she remarked. “It’s to 
exist only until the Constituent Assembly can be organised 
to meet and decide what kind of government Russia shall 
have. I believe the Assembly will choose a constitutional 
monarchy. Russia is not ready for a republic yet. And who 
knows,” she questioned, with a quick smile and a gesture of 
her long, slender hand with its cigarette which traced a letter 
“S” of smoke in the air, “but that we shall do even better under 
a constitutional monarchy, especially if we know the monarch, 
probably the present Grand Duke Mikhail, as I do, very well? 
Heavens!” she added, “the number of times that man has 
danced all over my toes! I hope he’ll be a better king than 
he is dancer.” 

The Countess interposed conversation into her determined 
agitation of the cocktail-shaker. “I wish they’d hurry up 
and get the thing decided,” she continued, in reference to 
the ultimate form of Russia’s government. “Anything to 
get these people back to work and stop this continual parading. 
Parades, parades, parades. When this is over I shall never 
want to see another. Yesterday it was a procession of house¬ 
maids which blocked what little traffic there was. The day 
before it was a parade of munitions workers demanding 
shorter hours and more pay. And previous to that I saw 
a parade of children carrying banners bearing the demand 
for the right to select their own parents! . . . Laugh if you 
want, but it’s true. They were orphan and illegitimate 


THE WINE 137 

children and they wanted to attach themselves to families of 
of their own selection.” 

“But the greatest of all parades is to be held soon,” she 
continued. “I mean that marking the burial of the revo¬ 
lutionary victims in the great grave they’re digging in the 
centre of the Field of Mars. You’ve seen them at work, of 
course. I understand the procession is to be a tremendous 
one. You mustn’t miss seeing it.” 

“As though one could miss a parade in Petrograd,” 
commented David. “Life here has come to be just one 
parade after another.” 

“By the way,” remarked his hostess, “I saw Naritza for 
a moment the other day. She asked about you. Wanted to 
know how the new order of things affected you and your 
business.” 

“That’s interesting. I was about to ask the same of her. 
I should think the passing of the royalty clique from power 
would weaken her position.” 

“You don’t know her. She always has more than one 
iron in the fire, and she’s not bothered with scruples, morals 
or principles. So when those to whom she has attached 
herself can’t produce what she wants, she transfers her 
affections to those who can. Off with the old love and on 
with the new! She’s now running around with those men 
who are behind the scenes in the Provisional Government. 
In fact, what I once said about Naritza seems to have some 
truth in it. She goes with the power. Whoever rules also 
has Naritza. But, speaking of her, she’s dancing at the benefit 
for a hospital to-night at the Mariensky. You’ve never seen 
her dance. I have one of the stage boxes. There’s quite a 
party going, but there’ll be plenty of room. Won’t you have 
dinner with us here and go too? You ought to, you know, 
if for no other reason than to see Naritza at her best. It’s 
unfair to form an opinion of her until you have seen her 
dance.” 

David acquiesced. 

In the great stage box he arranged his chair at the rail 


138 WINE OF FURY 

directly behind the Countess. The theatre showed but few 
empty places. He had seen it many times before and was at 
first unable to analyse the impression of difference which 
settled in his mind. As he looked about he became aware 
that it was not the old crowd. The auditorium contained 
few uniforms of high rank and fewer spectacular gowns. 
Uniforms of medium rank, dresses of simple design and con¬ 
ventional dull colour, and business suits gave a restraining 
sobriety to the glittering theatre. There were changes in 
its decoration too. The crown over the Imperial box wore 
a cover of scarlet. The great blue and gold curtain with the 
Imperial double eagle had been replaced by one of dingy 
red entirely out of keeping with the colour scheme of the 
theatre. 

Before the performance could begin, the orchestra had to 
play the Marseillaise as the new national anthem, not only 
once but three times through, in response to the insistent 
applause from the poorer clad members of the audience. 
While standing for the ceremony David noticed that in the 
rear of many boxes occupied by those who had subscribed 
to them under the old regime officers and women remained 
seated, making little effort to conceal their contempt for the 
new order. 

The benefit was popular. Many well-known stars from all 
Petrograd’s theatres gave their services. Opera singers, 
dancers, pianists, violinists, players from the comedy theatres, 
and a popular tragedian performed in rapid succession and 
kept the audience in a state of enthusiastic interest. 

David shared it, and with the others he shared, too, the 
anticipatory tension which led up to the appearance of 
Naritza. 

The orchestra, like a great voice vibrant with varied 
emotions, sang the short overture to the ballet divertissement . 
The curtain lifted silently, disclosing a clearing in a moonlit 
forest with a group of flower-costumed ballerinas in the 
centre. The group moved in an undulant circle faster and 
faster as the music hastened into crescendo, until with an 


T H E WIN E 139 

exultant crash it scattered, disclosing Naritza, resting on toe- 
tip, quivering like a silver moth in the moonlight. 

The eruptions of applause in the far corners of the audience 
were hissed into silence as the music carried the dancer on 
through the ballet. Now she fluttered the width of the stage, 
now bounded and seemed to float through the air as though 
riding on the beams of silver light, and, again, she spun in 
pirouette and stiffened as immovable as marble in a graceful 
pose in the arms of her partner. 

David felt himself, like the others of the audience, drawn 
to the edge of his chair. The sheer beauty of it enthralled 
him. Whatever else the woman was, he thought, she was a 
consummate artist. The utter abandon with which she dis¬ 
carded her personality and threw herself into the character 
of the dance proclaimed that. He was amazed too. Having 
heard so much of her livid reputation, and with the phrase 
“Russian realism” dinned in his ears by people who were not 
Russian, he had expected a more worldly display than this. 
He was quite unprepared for the delight it inspired. The 
dreamy beauty of the scene, the precision and ease with 
which the ballerinas went through their evolutions, the grace, 
fire and technical perfection of Naritza’s every movement 
fascinated him. Her silver toes seemed to pick out the 
delicate notes of the music, now in sparkling successions of 
runs and now in lingering isolation. He knew that he had 
witnessed no more crushing blow for the realists in art than 
this. The extreme of the artificial and the technical in 
execution, it seemed to him the acme of beauty in effect. He 
felt himself, like a tired, smudged child, taken by the hand 
and led to beauty he had never dreamed of. 

When the curtain fell on the dancer’s gradual subsidence 
from the vibrant thing of life into a crumpled mass of pearl¬ 
like silk and silver thistledown, he sprang to his feet and cast 
his applause into the thunderous din about him. Again 
Naritza was compelled to do the closing movement of the 
ballet, and still again, until she found it physically impossible 
to continue. 


140 WINE OF FURY 

She appeared before the curtain and bowed her head to 
the reverberating applause. People left their seats, rushed 
in a tumultuous mob to the orchestra rail to shout her name 
again and again, while from the galleries came booming, 
drawn-out shouts of “Beece! Beece!” Flowers arched to 
her feet, a shower of coins fell also, and even a finger ring 
or two. 

David, standing and clapping his hands, suddenly became 
aware of Naritza’s gaze. She stepped to the front of the 
stage, not twenty feet from the box, and, looking directly 
into his amazed eyes, bowed repeatedly to him. There was 
no mistaking the action. It was to him alone. He realised 
that others had noticed it, that many in the audience had 
turned to look. He felt foolish and conspicuous standing there 
beating his palms together. He sat down in confusion and 
was followed by the others in the box as Naritza left the 
stage, and the tumult subsided. 

This, of course, had not escaped the observant eye of the 
Countess. She regarded David with a knowing “Ah-a-a” 
which in tone soared up and down the scale. 

David hastened to forestall what he saw might be an 
embarrassing topic of conversation. “She’s wonderful, isn’t 
she?” he exclaimed. 

“Yes,” repeated the Countess, “wonderful. There’s no one 
who can beat her at this sort of thing. I doubt though that 
she could sustain such a pace throughout a full ballet. She’s 
not as wonderful as she used to be. The life’s telling on her. 
She seems heavy—for Naritza—and the fire isn’t so spon¬ 
taneous. It seems to require a bit of stoking. But still, in 
spite of it, she is incomparable.” 

“If she is what people make her out to be, I do not under¬ 
stand how she can create such beauty as this,” remarked 
David. 

“This is a relief, a bit of escape, for her. Most of us live 
in a world where things are not what we make them seem—a 
world of pink tights. Naritza lives in the hard world of 
wits, where there is little of our make-believe, where there 


THE WINE 141 

are no pink tights. Consequently, when the occasion arrives 
for a short sojourn in our world—which, by the way, usually 
she despises—she throws herself into it unreservedly. She is 
an artist. She lives the bit of life to perfection.” The 
Countess paused and looked at David for a moment. She had 
no intention of letting him change permanently so interesting 
a subject as his possible relations with the dancer. 

“Naritza seemed to appreciate your applause in particular,” 
she remarked, with a smile. 

“I noticed that . . . too,” replied David. “I wonder what 
it means.” 

“You haven’t been to see her?” 

“This is the first time I’ve seen her since you introduced 
me to her. I don’t care to see her. Her reputation and my 
business wouldn’t get along very well together, and I must 
admit that the incomparable Naritza has little attraction for 
me that I care to acknowledge. I think the less I see of her 
the better.” 

“Still, you must be nice to her.” 

“That’s the second time you’ve said that. Anyone would 
think I was in debt to her.” 

“Perhaps you are,” said the Countess as they rose to leave 
the theatre, and with something akin to a warning in her 
voice she added: “And her attention to you to-night may 
may be the first step towards collecting.” 


Ill 

Gradually David’s embarrassment when in Natalie’s pres¬ 
ence—the result of his violation of his promise to her to keep 
Radkin’s identity from the police—wore away. He realised 
that under ordinary circumstances it might have brought about 
the termination of their friendship. But in the few days 
which intervened between their meetings so much had hap¬ 
pened that, measured by the march of events, years had passed; 
so many that the more recent, younger and impetuous emotion 


142 WINE OF FURY 

had weakened before the initial, older and stubborn one. So 
much had happened, indeed, that all the destructive forces of 
the world seemed to have lost their power before the radiant, 
irresistible strength of the new order. David heard this in the 
voices of the people on the streets, felt it in the atmosphere 
itself which presaged the coming spring, and saw it in Natalie’s 
eyes as she greeted him. And in the pressure of her hand he 
felt the desire not to speak of the past, but to resume their way 
into the future. 

He now appeared at his best. The cares of his office kept 
him busy, alert, working at enough pressure to bring into 
play all the concise surety of his judgment, the resourceful 
elasticity of his imagination as applied to material interests, 
and the unyielding finality of his decision. The knowledge 
that his enterprise was now emerging from the shadow of ex¬ 
periment into the light of an established success gave him 
keen enjoyment. He went to talk with her at the close of a 
day’s work with the elation of a boy after a well-played game. 

He realised that his regard for her was changing, deepening. 
There was a time when he associated her only with the gentler, 
softer elements of character, and then he had compared her 
with her American sisters and concluded that he liked their posi¬ 
tive, assertive independence better. He was beginning now 
to attach reservations to his conclusions. One by one things 
happened that developed some new portion of her personality. 
It was as though through the enveloping mists of her highly 
organised environment she had appeared a surface of white, 
pliable to every emotion; and now, when these mists had begun 
to fade before the brightness of the new day, he was gradually 
becoming aware of the dimensionable, unchanging mass of 
character behind this surface. She was not independent; she 
was far too much involved in the affairs of her fellows for 
that; but, he felt, she was individual. 

As yet this was a vague feeling on his part. He could not 
have explained it had he realised it. Least of all to her. In 
all the years of his education and business experience there 


T H E WIN E 143 

had been no place for anything but carefully considered 
speech, well-planned action and rigid restraint of emotion. 
He had been trained in the repression of his natural feelings 
before the displeasure of the Great Taboo, “What Will People 
Think?” And now in this country where people floated 
through life on the tide of their emotions he found his re¬ 
straint to be nothing more than a form of intellectual senti¬ 
mentality, which, because it attached too much importance to 
an unimportant idea, prevented him from giving fit expression 
to what he was beginning to appreciate as the most important 
reaction of his life—his growing love for Natalie. 

There were many things about her that he found inexplica¬ 
ble. Just when he had arrived at a careful, rounded appraisal 
of her, some unlooked-for tangent action on her part set his 
estimate at naught. 

Occasionally, in spite of the early darkness and the inex¬ 
orable veil of snow and haze, they went for short walks to¬ 
gether, stopping at the cathedral, before the newspaper offices 
on the Nevsky to read the communiques from the front, or to 
listen to the speeches of some of the corner orators. In these 
speeches he first heard the term “Soviet,” and learned of the 
struggle for power already going on between the comparatively 
conservative Provisional Government and the extremists or 
Bolsheviks. 

He bore in mind the Countess’ remarks about the procession 
in honour of the victims of the Revolution and when the day 
came, made it a point to be out in the streets. 

It was a holiday. Not a shop opened for business, not a 
tram moved on the tracks, and not a vehicle stirred. The pro¬ 
cession began to form early. In side-streets, in squares in 
every section of the city, detachments organised according to 
a carefully prepared plan. 

Sixteen abreast, women, children, workmen, servants, sailors, 
soldiers, priests, beggars—thousand upon thousand—they 
gathered under the direction of the innumerable batoned mar¬ 
shals. Nearly all wore the badge of scarlet. Nearly all 


144 WINE OF FURY 

carried a wreath, greens, or a flower. Quietly and with order 
they formed, despite the absence of police, each on his honour 
to help keep the peace and each guarding his honour well. 

Early, too, the grey clouds lowered and scattered over the 
silent city a steady fall of snow, which now turned to rain, 
now to snow again. With the millions of trampling feet it 
converted the hard white streets and squares into running chan¬ 
nels and stagnant bogs of cold, dirty slush. 

Towards noon the movement to the grave on the Field of 
Mars, now the Field of Freedom, began. The separate armies 
of the mourning emerged from the fan of streets at one side 
of the vast field and joined the line in order of their arrival, 
becoming links in the far-flung chain of the procession. 

All through the day the march went on. Every street had 
its stream of humanity flowing to the mighty river at the field. 
Here gleamed the instruments of a band and there, upheld on 
the shoulders of comrades and silhouetted against the grey 
sky, a scarlet-covered coffin moved on its irresistible way. 

David stood with Natalie at a corner. Night had come. Over 
their heads the gaunt, irregular branches of the trees merged 
in the black sky dripping with cold, black rain. Before them 
stretched the vast field, its far boundaries lost in the distant 
darkness, but its centre where yawned the great grave an oasis 
of unearthly radiance from the hissing searchlights which 
glared from afar. About it ranged the crooked poles with 
their black, wet banners stirring slowly in the gusts of wind 
like the crude garments of emaciated giants. Beneath them 
and along the dribbling edge of the crater of the dead crept 
the procession of the living; its countless scarlet, gilt- 
inscriptioned banners writhing and glinting in the radiance; 
its countless hands lifting to drop flowers on the regular, 
motionless ranks lying in their wooden armour below; its 
countless white faces now solemnly impassive as a band 
hummed its dirge and now twisted with the words and harmony 
of the Hymn of Freedom which arose from everywhere and 
enveloped everything. As in consecutive scenes of a tre¬ 
mendous drama the dim figures emerged from the shadows of 


THE WINE 145 

the streets, walked clear in the vivid light for the part of one 
brief minute, and moved on, unheeding the rain from above, 
unheeding the filth underfoot, facing forward into the darkness. 

Stirred as never before, David watched, immovable. He 
felt the pressure of a hand on his arm. Natalie’s voice whis¬ 
pered: “I am going, David. Good-night.” And he saw her 
step into the slush and join a passing rank, which swept with 
her away from him towards the light. 

He tried to call to her but no words came. He stumbled 
a short way after her, but the ankle-deep muck which she had 
not noticed stopped him, and he jumped back to the curb. 
He waited, thinking that she might return after passing the 
grave, but in vain. She had gone on with the others, and as 
he made his slow way homeward it was her voice of all the 
fading chorus which hovered in his ears. 


IV 

During the Revolution and for a number of days immedi¬ 
ately after it Foma had remained away from the barracks, 
spending his time with Masha whenever possible. He had even 
considered not returning to the regiment at all. Nothing would 
have pleased him more than to go back up the river to their 
village with Masha, be married and live in peaceful solitude. 
But he found himself unable to take such a step. Discipline 
and friendship had made deep marks in his young fibre, and 
after a few days he had returned to the barracks to see his 
comrades. Once there, his definite return was inevitable. 
True, it was a dingy place, taped about with rules and reg¬ 
ulations—but all the old friends were there. It contained for 
him a sure place to sleep, and it offered, as usual, three meals 
a day. Materially he wanted little more, and after a few hasty 
and worried trips back and forth between the barracks and 
Masha’s house he once more became part of the routine. 

It was different now, however. The officers—with few 
exceptions—again in command, had altered their views of 


146 WINEOFFURY 

the Revolution to harmonise, for the time being, with those 
of the men. Their manner had lost much of its former snap 
and severity. There were not many drills; with more leaves 
granted, and with summer approaching, life in the barracks 
seemed altogether pleasant. 

What a vast number of questions the Revolution had raised 
for discussion! 

For instance, the question of God and the Church. The 
Tsar, the Little Father, the head of the Church, the personifi¬ 
cation of God, was gone. “There isn’t any God now,” said 
one soldier in the course of a great argument during the noon 
mess, “so why should we go to church, why should there be 
services for the regiment? It is a waste of time. They should 
tear down the churches.” 

“And divide up amongst us what’s in them,” said another. 

“Well,” remarked a third, “since there isn’t any Tsar now, 
there’s no need of fighting any more. It was the Tsar who 
asked us to fight. He is gone. So we don’t need to do as 
he asked. There should be peace at once.” 

“Yes,” added another; “and if the Tsar is gone and there 
isn’t any God, there’s no one to tell us not to do this and not 
to do that. We can do just as we please. That is good, isn’t 
it, comrades?” 

The political question continued to arouse considerable com¬ 
ment. “What should be done, comrades, about the opposi¬ 
tion of the Provisional Government to the plans of the Council 
of Soldiers’ and Workmen’s Deputies—the Soviet? A friend 
of mine in the Soviet tells me that the Government is betray¬ 
ing the Revolution, that it is planning to bring the Tsar back 
and that the land will never be divided up.” 

“Is it true, or isn’t it? Should we support the Soviet, or 
should we continue to do as the Provisional Government says?” 

“If the Provisional Government will punish the generals 
who sent our comrades to the war unprepared, that will be 
a good thing,” remarked one soldier. 

“It is said to-day that Kerensky will punish the generals 


T H E WI N E 147 

and the others who made us fight without guns. That is good.” 

“Yes,” confirmed another, “it is good. The first time I 
went to the front we marched up and only the first company had 
guns and ammunition, the next had guns but no bullets, the 
next only bayonets, and my company and the others nothing 
at all. We had nothing until the comrades with guns were 
killed and we could pick up their guns. It was very bad. 

“Ah,” said another, “that was bad, yes, but you had some¬ 
thing to eat. Now where I was one time our supplies did 
not come up. Whole trains got on the wrong tracks and ran 
into the German lines. Just what they needed too, and we 
didn’t have anything for days.” 

“And, Grisha Nikolaievitch,” added a fourth, “you remember 
the time when the artillery received shells made to fit German 
guns instead of our own. What do you think of that, com¬ 
rades? The generals in Petrograd had shells made in Japan 
and when they arrived we found that they were for German 
guns. We could not use our guns. We had to fall back and 
the Germans captured all of them too. Ah, these generals 
must be punished. If they had been punished before, we should 
have won the war earlier.” 

“When do you think we shall win it?” asked Foma. “I 
hope soon, because I wish to go home.” 

“It won’t be very long now, Foma Ivanovitch,” came the 
answer. “We’re free now and the Germans cannot beat peo¬ 
ple who are free. They will want to be free themselves and 
they will have a revolution like we did and the war will come 
to an end. Besides, it is said that very soon America will 
enter the war on our side-” 

“America!” exclaimed a soldier from the outer edge of the 
group. “What is that? New York?” 

“Stupid!” said the first speaker. “New York is in America. 
There are many people over there and more money than in 
all the rest of the world.” 

“Ah, that won’t do any good! People! Money! They are 
too far away. We must have soldiers. And the Americans 



14 S WINE OF FURY 

are not soldiers. I have been told that they are more trades¬ 
men than the Germans and that they have not been trained like 
the Germans. How then can they expect to fight?” 

“I know an American,” interjected another from the op¬ 
posite side. All looked at this singular person. “Yes,” he 
affirmed. “One day during the revolution he gave Pavel 
Illytch and me each fifty roubles to fire a machine-gun into the 
air from the roof of a building on the Nevsky. Yes, fifty 
roubles apiece! He works for an American newspaper and he 
wanted us to do it to frighten the crowd in the streets so that 
he could take a picture of them running away and falling down 
to escape the bullets. We did—of course all the bullets went 
up in the air, but he took a very good picture. He said in 
America it would make much money for his paper. He is 
very clever.” 

Thus the talk in the barracks went on and, in common with 
the people of the city, this and parading came to be the chief 
occupation. Every day, parade after parade, long and short, 
straggling or compact, but always bearing the red banners with 
the gilt inscriptions, moved from street to street. And what 
fun it was to rush out of the barracks, join them, march round 
for a while, and listen to the speeches! 

One day, without warning, the troops in Foma’s barracks 
were ordered to the front. There was protest. Had not the 
Provisional Government promised that none of the troops 
which took part in the Revolution would be moved away from 
Petrograd? Yes; but circumstances had changed. Besides, 
they would not have to fight. They were going to a quiet 
section of the front, where there had been no action for two 
years. They were to relieve troops, which were to be specially 
trained for a great attack which would finish the enemy. 
Russia’s allies had insisted that she make this last attack. It 
would not take long. The chances were that the troops would 
not be away from Petrograd more than two months. Reluc¬ 
tantly they gave in to the arguments and to the deep-rooted 
sense of discipline and prepared for departure. 


THE WINE 149 

Masha cried at the thought of being separated from Foma 
for even so short a period as two months. 

“Don’t cry, dear little Masha,” he had whispered to her 
soothingly at the departure. “It’s only for two tiny little 
months, and in a place where there will be no fighting, where 
there has been none for two years. I shall soon be here be¬ 
side you again.” 

As the train bore him away from the city, however, the feel¬ 
ing of confidence slipped away from him. He recalled the 
excitement he had experienced during the trip to the front in 
the first year of the war. Outside the train all was unchanged; 
the same flat stretches of plain occasionally broken by a 
forest of spruce-trees, each one straight and conventional like 
the toy trees in children’s sets; or by a lonely village huddling 
about its doomed white church and emitting a straggle of 
people who came to the crude station to clamber aboard, to 
meet friends, or to stand in awe as the engine hissed and 
thundered past. 

The same, yet somehow different. There was no excitement 
now, only the mute protest of silence and an inexplicable sad¬ 
ness which enveloped Foma’s heart. 

V 

Spring seemed to displace winter overnight. The laughing 
giant strode over the country-side into the city, his warm 
breath melting the hard snow into slush and water; his great 
arms brandished a mighty club and smote the icy covering 
of the Neva such crashing blows that it broke into countless 
pieces which jostled and piled upon each other in their haste 
to get to the gulf; his gusty laughter, with a tinge of warmth 
in it, swirled about the ice-capped buildings and made them 
drip with moisture. 

Within a few days the entire city seemed to exude water as 
the foot-thick layer of ice built up over the streets by the 


150 WINE OF FURY 

winter’s constant fall of snow melted and choked the gutters. 
It gathered in great pools at corners and squares, dirty yellow 
from the colour of the wooden street beneath, spurted in 
fountains of yellow spray when a carriage crossed a series of 
loose paving-blocks, and ran in tiny cascades from the house¬ 
tops. 

At this time Alexei appeared again. Thin and white from 
his sufferings, he ventured out in company with members of 
his family for a breath of the cool, moist air and for the 
caress of the inspiring sunlight on his pale cheek. People had 
almost forgotten Alexei; and already, so tremendous were the 
intervening events, many who had eagerly spread the gossip of 
his affair with Naritza were unable to recall the details. 

As soon as possible he went to see Anna and from the first 
hesitant moment of their meeting he became her willing slave. 
Love, gratitude and abject repentance overwhelmed him and he 
could only express his feelings by the constant, inarticulate 
attentions which he bestowed upon her. Gradually, as the 
bruising fact of their experience wore away, he regained his 
old felicity of speech and in tones vibrant with feeling he 
begged Anna’s forgiveness. “I’ll never see her again as long 
as I live,” he protested in reference to Naritza. “It’s you I 
love, Aneta,” he would say. “My life belongs to you. I 
shall give it to you day by day through many happy years, 
or quickly, all at once, if you ask it. Remember-” 

Here she would reach up, place one slender finger on his 
lips and say: “Don’t, Alosha, don’t talk like that. I do not 
like you to be so solemn.” 

The seriousness in his voice frightened her a bit. She did 
not quite understand it. She did not want a new Alexei, 
she realised, but the old Alexei, with all his dash and 
fervour spent for her alone. As he grew stronger it came back 
to him, and often the surge of his emotions overwhelmed 
his newly acquired seriousness. Never once did he allow his 
attention to stray from her and she came to realise her wish. 

The knowledge of his devotion had its concurrent effects 
upon her own demeanour. It banished the cloud of doubt 



T H E WI N E 151 

which had covered her since the near-disastrous outcome of 
the escapade, and, leaving her a clear view of the bright 
future, it encouraged the reawakening of her natural, irrepres¬ 
sible happiness. Again she sang and danced her way about 
the house, and the limpid clarity of her laughter with the 
sparkle of her dark eyes dispelled from her father’s heart 
the fear that his “dear little one” had set out upon her un¬ 
happy venture a child only to return a woman. 

Towards Alexei he began to lose his prejudice. The way 
his daughter ran from his chair-arm when she heard the young 
Lieutenant admitted, and his gentle submission to her airy 
dominance convinced him that, after their fashion, they loved 
each other, and that to keep them apart would only cause 
unhappiness. “After all,” he thought, “the boy’s family is 
a good one and his faults are those of youth. Perhaps he’ll 
turn out all right.” 

Not so the Princess. In spite of the fact that she had en¬ 
couraged Alexei when he first made Anna’s acquaintance, she 
now harboured a bitter dislike for him. Not because of any 
weakness in the boy’s character which the incident may have 
developed—she could never get out of herself enough to 
consider the abstract character—but solely because his actions 
had involved her name in the uncomplimentary gossip of the 
day. For the conclusion of many conversational aftermaths 
of the incident was: “Well, it never would have happened 
if the real Princess Dukharina had been alive.” 

It probably would not have happened, nor would many 
another occurrence, but this fact should not have implied 
that the second Princess might have prevented the incident. 
—unless perhaps, concerning the fulfilment of her duty 
towards the family Dukharin, she had a guilty conscience.. 
Not that she could have prevented this particular happen¬ 
ing—with Petrograd’s cafes and restaurants as they were; 
with their private rooms for all-night parties, and with Naritza 
as she was, it might have happened to anyone—but she could 
not escape the facts that she had married the General for 
social position and that ever since the marriage she had done 


152 WINE OF FURY 

little save attempt to improve and consolidate that position. 
Knowing this, resenting it, and refusing to admit it, the re¬ 
marks which drifted to her eager ears angered her and set 
her to hunting out a victim for her anger. 

“Oh! that this should happen to me,” she would exclaim, 
raising her bejewelled, blue-veined fists to her temples and 
bringing them down sharply upon her satin-covered knees, 
notwithstanding the fact that, comparatively speaking, little 
had happened to her. And then: “This affair must be 
broken off. Some way I shall see that it is done. He must 
not come here. I do not want to see him in this house. He 
has disgraced us.” 

It did not occur to her that in adopting this course she 
might be forcing the two love-sick children to meet in places 
other than the house, or that her uncompromising attitude 
really drove the General, through his love of fair play, to 
take Alexei’s side despite the fact that from the first he had 
not approved of a possible match between the boy and his 
younger daughter. 

“Disgrace, nothing!” he would reply to the Princess. 
“Aneta is considered a brave little girl. As for Alexei, he’s 
only a boy, a boy full of vigour. It’s not strange that Naritza 
could do with him as she pleased. She’s made fools out of 
men old enough to be his father. I feel foolish myself when I 
see her sometimes.” Which statement usually ended the dis¬ 
cussion. 


VI 

At this time, when the thought of Natalie’s companionship 
and the approach of summer united to lure David from his 
desk, a steady increase of affairs arose to hold him there. 

Day by day the line of depositors in the bank grew longer 
and more insistent, the visitors in the little room before his 
private office multiplied, and the figures descriptive of his 
balances deployed out across the balance-sheet. Their total 


T H E WI N E 153 

already stood at double the amount he had expected to achieve 
in a year. 

His responsibility had of course kept pace with the financial 
growth. He alone was responsible to the clients in Russia 
for every rouble entrusted to his branch. Although he 
naturally viewed the development with satisfaction over the 
impression it must be making at home, the seriousness of it 
became more and more established in his mind. 

His staff had already become inadequate. Its members 
were willing and they worked hard—remained long after 
hours—but the struggle to keep abreast of the new business 
was a losing one. The triple burden of attending to his own 
executive work, of overseeing theirs to prevent costly errors, 
and at the same time of teaching them business methods and 
Russian customs began to invade his reserve. He found him¬ 
self becoming irritable with his helpers in spite of his knowl¬ 
edge that they were doing their best. 

The news of America’s entry into the war added another 
thought which occasionally demanded consideration. What 
should he do? What part should he take in it? His friends 
at home would all be in it. Should he leave his work here 
and do likewise? Impossible. This work was far more im¬ 
portant than his personal attitude towards the war. Thus he 
dismissed the thought. 

His greatest apprehension arose from the gold. Negotia¬ 
tions for its return to safer vaults made little progress. The 
directors of the Russian bank, behind their suave words 
and bland smiles, exercised to the limit their precocious 
powers of procrastination and he found himself baffled at 
every turn. 

There was nothing to do but continue to guard the bullion 
and keep its concealment in the building a secret. There were 
few who knew of its presence. The young man who originally 
accepted it had returned to the United States, a victim of 
Petrograd’s harrowing winter climate. In his own circle only 
Natalie knew and she seemed to have forgotten it completely. 

He himself was all too conscious of it. It hovered in his 


154 WINE OF FURY 

mind with the beating insistence of a bird’s wings. When 
away, he feared lest in his absence and in the dearth of police 
protection the office might be broken into by a band of the 
criminals released from the prisons under the general amnesty 
declared immediately following the Revolution and now roam¬ 
ing the streets. When in the room, he felt its presence emanat¬ 
ing from the wall, luring him to open the safe door. And 
when he lay in bed the yellow metal outweighed all his other 
cares. 

As suddenly as it had arrived, spring gave way to summer. 
The flood of moisture vanished, the parks blossomed into fra¬ 
grant bowers threaded with inviting pathways, and the Summer 
Garden was thrown open, the booth-like covers to the statues 
removed and their naked beauty revealed through the soft 
foliage. The sky came as a blue revelation after the 
dispersion of the slate-coloured clouds, a blue intensified by 
the subsiding waters of the mighty Neva, which panted slowly 
after its Herculean task of carrying the ice to the broad gulf. 
And the sun! Daily its arc deepened like a steadily drawn 
bow, and with each day its transit of the heavens grew longer, 
its slanting rays warmer and the light it struck from the 
gilded domes, mosaics and crosses of the city’s churches more 
like russet flame. 

As though hatched by the new season, rumours in countless 
numbers began to flit about. From mouth to ear they went 
on their crossing courses, weaving over the city an entangling 
mesh of hearsay. 

David began to notice, too, an increasing number of “soap¬ 
box” orators. Continuously throughout the day it seemed as 
though someone—usually a roughly clad workman or a wild¬ 
eyed student—harangued from each corner, from the corner- 
pieces of bridges, from trucks in the squares, and from the 
steps of public buildings. Above each of them stood a motley 
crowd of soldiers, servants, idle workmen and vagrants, listen¬ 
ing with stolid interest and believing whoever spoke last. 

At the square before the Kshesinskaya Palace one day he 
joined one of the groups and listened, although he could 


T H E WIN E 155 

understand only detached phrases from the tumultuous dis¬ 
course of the speaker. This man, obviously intelligent, wore 
the uniform of an under-officer. He spoke fluently and fer¬ 
vently, and seemed to hold the audience more by the rhythmic 
flow of his speech than by its import. 

. . about three months ago, my friends,” he was saying, 
“occurred the Russian Revolution . . . three months . . . 
time that we look about . . . peer into the future . . . pre¬ 
vent disaster . . . this is what we must do. . . . The Revolu¬ 
tion was political . . . the most patent fact about the three 
months that have followed . . . there are people who strive to 
make it social ... a small group of extremists endeavours to 
substitute its rule for that of the people . . . seeks to quit the 
war altogether ... an ignominious separate peace with Ger¬ 
many. 

“They call themselves the Council of Workmen’s and 
Soldiers’ Deputies, or the Soviet . . . the ignorant to whom 
anything is right that favours him . . . the overstudied im- 
practicalist who mistakes seeing problems for the solving of 
them . . . who regard ignorance and poverty as the acme of 
virtue, and wisdom and wealth as the summit of duplicity 
. . . owing to absolute necessity for unity and co-operation 
. . . Soviet knows the Government would go to almost any length 
to retain its support. Hence it uses the threat of withdrawal 
and of calling strikes both in the ranks of labour and the army 
to accomplish its wishes. . . . Now these people advocate 
separate peace with Germany ... to save the Revolution, 
they say. . . . Betray the Allies. Devil care what happens 
to Russia . . . they really want power . . . they seek the 
support of the tired soldier by promising him a safe separate 
peace . . . with the present rulers of Germany there can be 
no safe peace. ... If Russia holds her ground the sooner 
will the German people be forced to admit the error of their 
government. 

“The Revolution, my friends, must strengthen us. . . . This 
mad, thoughtless joking, this abuse of power by the in¬ 
experienced, this parading in the limelight of history while 


156 WINE OF FURY 

Mother Russia grows weaker and weaker—the laughing-stock 
of the world and its despair also—all this cannot go on. It 
must be changed. With your help, my friends, it shall he 
changed.” 

The speaker flung his clenched fist upward in a final gesture 
of determination and without waiting for whatever applause 
there might have been he descended from the improvised plat¬ 
form and vanished in the shifting crowd. 

There was no applause. The majority of the listeners main¬ 
tained their stolid poses. Others spoke their comments aloud. 
David heard some of these. “What he says is true, Ivan Ivan- 
ovitch,” said one soldier. “Something must be done.” 

“Yes, it is true.” 

“But what?” queried another. “Who shall do it?” 

“What language,” remarked a third, “what words he used 
and how easily! Surely he has been to the university.” 

“A good-looking young chap, wasn’t he, Masha?” a woman’s 
voice was heard to ask. 

Some of the audience started down the street, but the sight 
of another speaker mounting the steps held them. The new 
speaker turned and faced his audience. 

Surprise held David fast. It was Radkin. He had per¬ 
mitted his black, pointed beard to extend farther back on 
his chin and to grow a bit longer, but this could not disguise 
him. The small, intense black eyes under the slashing slant 
of the black eyebrows, the sheer expanse of white forehead 
with the tracery of blue veins, and the abrupt rise of black, 
close-cropped hair proclaimed him. 

David breathed a sigh of relief that he had seen Radkin 
first. Thoughts flashed in rapid sucession through his mind. 
How had the man fared at the hands of the police? How 
had he been released? By his friends, perhaps, during the 
Revolution? What had he been doing since that time? And 
what was his attitude towards the current political problems? 

The answer to the last question was not long forthcoming. 
When Radkin spoke it was with all the old incisive clarity. 
His sharp, compact sentences seemed to bite like a gleaming 


THE WINE 157 

axe into the flourishing trunk of argument which his predeces¬ 
sor had reared before the stolid audience. 

“I have not much to say, comrades,” he began. “I only 
wish to answer the one who has just spoken and who seems 
to have left us now. I am not as fluent or intelligent a 
speaker as he. I know little of fine words and in place of 
them I must depend upon the simple truth. 

“Briefly, what did this man say? That if Russia makes a 
separate peace she will be deserting her allies and that the 
present Provisional Government is better for you and Russia 
than a Soviet government will be. 

“As to Russia’s deserting her allies—have they not already 
deserted her? What have they done for her? Have they 
sent her supplies, comparatively few, because she could not 
at once pay for them. Has the British fleet helped Russia 
combat the enemy in the Gulf of Finland? No, not a ship 
has appeared! The English continue to say, ‘England expects 
every Russian to do his duty,’ or ‘England will fight to the 
last Russian.’ Have the Americans sent one of the thousands 
of aeroplanes they promised? Not one. Nor will they. The 
Americans are capitalists. They are far away and they know 
little about war. They will not help much. Moreover, in¬ 
stead of the Allies helping Russia, they have made it harder 
for Russia by insisting that she continue to attack the enemy. 
And this in spite of the fact that already Russia has had 
more men killed than they, that in the first month of the 
war it was the reckless sacrifice of Russian men that pre¬ 
vented the enemy from concentrating his troops on the western 
front and thus breaking through the retreating English and 
French. 

“Is not that enough? Why fight more? What are the war 
aims? No one knows. Our allies as well as the enemy have 
none in particular. They are fighting for as much as they can 
get. You have heard it said that Russia will get Constanti¬ 
nople. What’s Constantinople to you? The only thing the 
Russians want is the land, their own land, divided up amongst 
the peasants. And if they fight on they are promised, not the 


158 WINE OF FURY 

land, but Constantinople. It is not much that the Provisional 
Government promises you, is it, comrades? Fighting, death, 
hunger, and at the end—nothing for yourselves. It would in 
deed be a hopeless outlook if it were not for the Soviet. 

“The Soviet, as you all know, is the enemy of the boui% 
geoisie, of the nobility, of the people who own things, include 
ing the land. It has sworn to take the land from them and to 
divide it up among the people. It has also sworn to stop th&. 
senseless, useless fighting, to make peace as soon as it is 
placed in power. With peace established and with the 
soldiers back on the farms, it can also make good its promises 
to supply you with more food. That is its programme. It 
is simple and practicable. It only needs your support to 
begin at once. 

“The situation, then, is this. Support the Provisional 
Government and you have fighting, death, hunger and no re¬ 
ward. Support the Soviet and you have peace, plenty and the 
land. It is for you to choose.” 

Radkin descended the steps and mingled with the crowd. 
The same confusion of voices which had followed the first 
speech arose. “What he says is true, Ivan Ivanovitch,” said 
one soldier; “something must be done.” 

“Yes, it is true, something must be done, but . . . what? 

. . . and who shall do it?” came the reply as the group 
wandered away in the general disintegration of the crowd. 


VII 

During the long, intermittent journey to the front fully 
one half of the soldiers in Foma’s company disappeared. 
One by one they dropped off the train as it stopped or slowed 
down at villages along the way. Foma was often tempted to 
do likewise during the long nights as he lay stretched out 
on the floor of the box-car, with the “clickety-click” of the 
rails sounding in his ears like a great clock. Had there been 
a place to go, he might have done it; but although he knew 


THE WINE 159 

the people at home in the village would welcome him, he 
knew also that his mother would cry out at the thought of his 
desertion. 

Arrived and eventually sent to his station in the line in 
a company of replacement troops, he found the situation 
reassuring. The trenches were deep and comparatively wide, 
and from the improved construction and refinements such 
as “duck-walks” and occasional solid dug-outs they had 
evidently been undisturbed by enemy activity for many 
months. 

A half-mile to the rear of the trenches a forest rose like 
a black wall out of the vast expanse of brown and green 
patched plain. The forest extended like an immeasurable 
letter “L”; its base enclosed within its guardian arms an¬ 
other section of the plain, which in the absence of aeroplane 
activity served as a manoeuvring ground for the troops, while 
the forest itself made an ideal shelter for supplies and wagon- 
trains. 

Foma’s furtive look over the edge of the trench disclosed 
nothing startling. The ground sloped to a shallow valley 
which not so long ago had been marked off into oblongs and 
squares of fertile fields and gardens, now overgrown and 
gradually merging into one. On the farther up-slope ran the 
brown dust-line of the Austrian trenches, and behind it stood 
the crude timber dwellings of a small village, over which, 
despite the banishing heat of the white sun, hovered the in¬ 
definable atmosphere of abandonment. It was discernible 
even in the white church, which seemed an empty gesture of 
something human in the impersonal loneliness of its surround¬ 
ings. 

It had been like that for months, men said. No offensive 
activity from the Austrian side and none from their own. 
“Live and let live” had become the motto of the opposing 
bodies of troops; and so implicitly had it been observed that 
the lines were often left skeletonised as companies were with¬ 
drawn for rest. 

Men also said, however, that this state of affairs approached 


160 WINE OF FURY 

an end. Activity in the lines and in the rear bespoke prep¬ 
aration for movement. The bringing up of supplies and am¬ 
munition, frequent bayonet instruction for troops in the plain 
within the arms of the forest, and an air of importance on the 
part of the officers, who since the Revolution and the formation 
of the soldiers’ committees in each company had been even 
companionable with the men—these signs were to the ex¬ 
perienced soldier ominous. Foma soon noted the unmistak¬ 
able evidences of activity and a gnawing apprehension fastened 
itself in his mind. 

It grew more active early one morning when with nearly 
all the others of his company he filed through the dusty 
communication trenches to the cool, dark forest and there 
took the road on the long march to the drill field. Other 
roads through the forest contributed troops to the line, and 
eventually thousands of men, their tunics wet with perspira¬ 
tion which marked caricaturing lines through the brown dust 
on their faces, debouched out on the other side. Here, after 
a short rest, they re-formed their companies, and with the 
exhortations of the officers to keep perfect lines sounding in 
their ears they marched down the edge of the forest. 

The dust spurted from under their hobbed feet in brown 
clouds which spiralled upwards to disintegrate in the move¬ 
ment of their passage and the merciless heat of the sun. 
Finally, ahead and at the forest’s edge, Foma noted a group 
of officers in the tonneau of a staff automobile where a pennon 
hung listlessly from its lance upright beside the wind-shield. 
A small, somewhat stooped figure with one hand caught at 
the second button of his jacket was conspicuous. As the 
scarlet-bedecked colours borne up ahead passed, the free hand 
went up in salute. 

“Who is that?” Foma heard a voice behind him whisper. 

“You did not hear?” came the answer. “It’s Kerensky, 
the new War Minister. He is one of us. He is an able man.” 

“He’s going to tell us we must fight,” another voice re¬ 
marked. “He’s not so able. The able man will be the one 
that stops the fighting-” 


THE WINE 161 

“Ts-s-s!” interrupted another. “Straighten up the line 
there; let’s show that we are the best company.” 

With straight lines, set faces and thumping steps they swept 
by the little man in the car. As they turned and took their 
places as part of the brigade squares which were being 
formed on the great plain, Foma looked again. He noticed 
the little man’s unmartial appearance and the deep-set eyes 
in his white face. Young he was, but already sober and sad. 

The last company past in review, the last square formed, 
silence extended over the plain and the immobile ranks of 
men. 

The man in the car began to speak. The words came from 
his contortioning lips in an ever-increasing stream. A sinu¬ 
ous, tawny stream it was, swift and irresistible—a stream now 
rushing on in a solid, shining, green mass of translucent 
declaration, and now crashing into the white foam of fervent 
appeal. Foma had heard many of the words and phrases be¬ 
fore, but never spoken with such sincere conviction. Some¬ 
how tides of faith from this man’s soul backed his words, and 
as they rolled and swelled about his ears, Foma believed. He 
saw now, clearly, as he had never seen before, why he must 
fight. It was to save the new freedom from the crushing heel 
of the invader who wished to re-establish the old order. It 
was to save the new freedom which, when the fighting ended, 
was to enable him to marry Masha and take her to his home 
built on land of his own. So clearly did he see this under the 
spell of the turbulent words that when the speaker’s arms 
swept aloft in a last impressive gesture, and when the sound 
of his last words had dimmed, he added his voice to the 
spontaneous cheers which shattered the tense silence and 
echoed and re-echoed from the dark wall of the forest. 

During the long, dusty march back to the lines, however, 
his enthusiasm waned with the increasing weight of his feet, 
rifle and knapsack. 

It diminished almost entirely when, the next morning, the 
word came round that they were to attack at dawn of the 
following day. 


162 WINE OF FURY 

The night before the attack Foma found that he could 
not sleep. He sat hunched in an attitude of cramped slumber 
on the cool earth-shelf of the trench, conscious of his comrades’ 
dim, sleeping forms on both sides. His gaze shifted from 
star to star about the steel-blue heavens. A wisp of cloud 
ventured across the moon’s steady gleam. The same moon, 
he thought, shone with the same pale light upon Masha. Was 
she facing it now? Did she think of him? Of course. Now. 
At this very minute. Else why should the stars blink at him 
with the same gleam that was often in her small eyes? 

“0 God!” he prayed, “protect Masha and me so that we can 
be married. We shall bring so much happiness into the 
world.” 

God? Since the Revolution some had said there was no 
God. He had been abolished with the Tsar. But it could not 
be. Foma felt sure of that. Because if there were no God, 
this that was to happen to-morrow, the hate, the murder, the 
pain, would be too awful. There would be no use living un¬ 
less there was God to turn it all to some good account. Life 
would be a vicious, futile joke. No, God was. Foma was 
not sure what he looked like now that there was no Tsar, but 
nevertheless . . . 

He recalled his feelings before that first attack back in 
1915. Fear had arisen in him, but it had weakened before 
his hate of the enemy. It had been a physical fear too, dread 
of being killed, of that final convulsive moment. 

Now there was none of that kind of fear. If he were 
killed he knew that it would not hurt much. The wound in 
his chest had not hurt a great deal. Just a thump as though 
he had been struck with a club, followed by a nauseating sick¬ 
ness as the cerise blood foamed in his throat and mouth. The 
fear which possessed him now had nothing to do with physical 
pain, but solely with the thought of missing his happiness with 
Masha. There was no hate of the enemy to alleviate it. Be¬ 
fore, he had been able to hate the German and the Austrian 
because he had never seen them and because of the things he 
had been told they did; since then he had seen many of them 


THE WINE 163 

and they were not child-torturing monsters. They were like 
other men, and he could not bring himself to hate other men. 
Not even Marinoff, whom he had killed. “But I’m thinking 
too much,” he said to himself. “It is not good to do that. 
One becomes foolish that way. I must sleep.” 

Eventually, when the moon paled behind the veil of clouds 
and a faint haze spread from the river, he slept. He dreamed 
of Masha, seeing clearly in the moonlight her short, plump 
figure and her bright eyes peeping up at him from the oval 
outline of her shawl. 

A hand upon his shoulder and the sound of his name 
awakened him. The haze had gone. Far off over the hill in 
the east amber light spread upward like a vast fan, increasing 
in brightness as it opened. The dim figures of his comrades 
moved about in the trench. They were hastily eating black 
bread and the kasha gruel served from the steaming tin cylin¬ 
ders brought to the corner of the communication trench. Foma 
hurried to join them. Then they all took their places along 
the fire-step. 

Officers walked back and forth, whispering to the men and 
occasionally examining their rifles. The minutes passed like 
seconds. The dreaded moment approached. 

The attack was to be a surprise. It was proposed to break 
the Austrian line with the first rush. There was to be no warn¬ 
ing artillery barrage. They were to dash over in silence. 

The officers stood at the ladders, gazing fixedly at their wrist- 
watches. They counted the minutes. Five. Foma fingered his 
clips of cartridges and changed the one in the breech of his 
rifle, noting with embarrassment as he did so the disturbed 
glances of his fellows at the faint metallic noises. Four. He 
fixed his bayonet immovably. Three. His hobbed soles 
crunched in the dirt as he shifted for a better footing for the 
scramble upward. Two. He was thirsty. Why had he for¬ 
gotten to take a final drink of water after the meal? One. 
“See the lieutenant’s hand quiver. We are going. God, pro¬ 
tect me for Masha. Now!” 

A desperate scramble and they were up and over. In silence 


164 WINE OF FURY 

the long, uneven line swept forward. Came a shot from the 
Austrian trenches. A rattle of them. The cloth-ripping snarl 
of a machine-gun, answered by a yell of hate from the onrush- 
ing line. Rifle-fire broke out in a storm. The air whined 
with vicious insects. Dirt flew in their faces. Down the line 
a man dived face first into the earth. Another sat down like 
a child playing in the sand. The even rip of the machine-gun 
broke, grew ragged, stopped altogether. Foma noted it with a 
fearful glee. A renewed yell arose. The Austrians were run¬ 
ning. Yes, they were scrambling from the trenches, dropping 
their guns and running to the rear towards the deserted village. 
It was victory. After them. A whistle like the cry of a swift, 
invisible bird passed over. Sharp barks came from over the 
hill ahead and crashes like falling planks behind. The Aus¬ 
trian artillery. It must be rushed and captured. The enemy 
trenches yawned under foot. Some jumped, slipped, scram¬ 
bled out and rushed on. Foma was among them, noting the 
jabs and thrusts, the blows and the writhing forms along either 
side. They passed the first houses of the village. 

Foma burned now. His legs ached. Thirst choked his 
breath. From out of the house directly before him three 
Austrians emerged. One held bottles in his hands. They 
looked at the onsweeping Russians in terrified amazement and 
ran. “Wine!” thought Foma. He felt it in his dusty throat. 

“Hi, there!” he shouted, running faster after them. “Hi, hi, 
give me some of that! Hi-•” What was that? An ex¬ 

press train? No, a big one. Down! 

Too late. A thousand-pointed star of blinding light. A 
giant hand jerked him up, its fingers running over his body, 
driving the flesh and blood back and forth before them like so 
much liquid. A catapultic blast, obliterating the universe. 
Silence. Darkness. Immobility. 

VIII 

Cold rain splashing on his face and outstretched hands re¬ 
vived Foma. For a long time he struggled back the painful 


THE WINE 165 

road to consciousness, collecting his scattered senses one by one 
from the far corners of his mind. 

Where am I?” he asked. “Am I at home in the village? 
In the barracks at Petrograd? Or in the darkness of death? 
Where is the bright God?” 

The rain reassured him. “It does not rain in heaven,” he 
thought. “Ah, I remember. The fight. The shell. Am I 
wounded?” 

With a sustained effort, he moved his hand; then an arm. 
Beyond an ache, nothing wrong there. His legs, too, obeyed 
him, and in the course of experimenting with them he became 
aware that he lay in the black mud, soaked to the marrow. He 
lifted his head and strove to see about him. Darkness absolute 
baffled his searching eyes. 

“I am blind!” The thought stung him to a gesture of 
despair. He struggled quickly to his feet, staggered dizzily in 
a small circle, and pitched face first into the mud. “Blind,” 
he thought. “Ah, God of mine! Never to see again, Mother, 
Masha, the green grass and trees, the sparkle of the river.” 

Slowly he sat up and remained there sitting in the muck 
until the dizziness abated. He then tried standing again, and 
eventually, with hands groping in the all-enveloping night, he 
stumbled away in a zigzag path. 

To walk was at first an agonising effort. Each muscle de¬ 
manded coercion. Each burned with pain as though twisted 
tight like strands of rope. As he lurched on, the pain changed 
from stabbing fire to a glowering ache. 

He felt that he had crossed a narrow strip which was com¬ 
paratively smooth. He veered round to it again and following 
it, his eyes turned to the heavy rain, his lips muttering: 
“Blind! Blind!” 

After a few minutes there appeared a tiny point of light. It 
seemed to be far off and well up from the ground. “Light!” 
he thought. “I am blind. Am I blind? I can see it.” And 
he looked at it eagerly as though disappearance meant his life. 
He closed one eye with slow breathlessness. He still saw the 
light. A thrill spread over his tired, twisted body. “I am not 


166 WINE OF FURY 

blind. I am not blind,” he shouted. The realisation was too 
much and he sank to a sitting posture in the mud, whimpering 
like a child. 

The thought that the gleam might vanish brought him to his 
feet again and he set out towards it. He was able to bend 
lower now without falling, and as his eyes became accustomed 
to the darkness he gradually made out the road and beside it 
the low shape of a building. It belonged to the village behind 
the Austrian lines, and the light ahead shone from the hill 
which, from the trenches, had been the horizon. He recalled 
that the road veered to the right and followed it without 
falling. 

He caught up with the light. It was attached to the last 
wagon of a supply-train on the move after the troops, which 
had made a magnificent advance. It had stopped to rest the 
horses. Soldiers looked Foma over, questioned him, and with 
a piece of burlap wiped free the worst of his coating of mud. 
They took him into one of the wagons. 

Towards morning they reached another village. Troops 
were billeted in its houses and barns, Foma’s company among 
them. A guard conducted him to his friends. They were in 
a low barn which was partly filled with new hay. Some of 
them rose when Foma appeared in the doorway, leaning 
limply against its side. Candles were lighted. “It’s Foma 
Ivanovitch alive and back with us.” 

“We thought you were killed, Foma Ivanovitch.” 

“What happened?” 

“When I saw you last you were after three of those Austrian 
fellows who had some bottles in their hands.” 

Without answering, Foma sank to the hay exhausted. The 
men gathered round him solicitously. Some helped him get 
out of his sticking clothes. Others drew a small charcoal 
brazier from a corner and blew and fanned its lingering glow 
into a blaze which they fed until it threatened to set fire to the 
hay. The remainder either snored in their corners too far 
down the restful road of sleep to be bothered talking with one 


T H E WI N E 167 

thought dead, or sat up listening and watching Foma. Non¬ 
descript garments were produced for him, including a blanket, 
and he prepared to take his place among them in the hay. 

He stood for a moment beside the brazier, his hands ex¬ 
tended, its rapidly dying light delineating the thick features 
of his face. “Well, Foma Ivanovitch,” observed one of his 
comrades, “you are having your share of the fighting, aren’t 
you?” 

Foma turned and, as he relaxed into the hay, stated with 
preoccupied finality: “I shall not fight any more.” 


IX 

In Petrograd day followed day in cloudless succession, 
each a long blaze of light like sunshine in a mirror. It 
heightened the henna and slate of buildings and threw 
their straight lines into facets of shadow and relief. 
Occasionally a somnolent, opalescent blaze reduced the city 
to an intangible dream of tinted walls, shadowy parks, un¬ 
certain spaces and limpid canals where the heavy water 
completed the circle of the bridges’ arcs and disclosed ever- 
changing reflections of gilded domes and Byzantine towers. 

On one of these afternoons soft with haze David walked 
with Natalie down the Kamenno-Ostroffski to the parks on 
the islands. He reflected that he should not be there. The 
volume of business demanded his presence in the office, but 
the overwhelming boldness which had led him to thrust the 
papers impatiently aside held him to their course, whatever 
it might be. 

The fresh colours of spring had long since acquired the 
softness of summer and the perfumed air bore no trace of 
chill. In the woods the sunlight emphasised the various 
shades of green of the foliage and played in pleasant patterns 
through the trees. 

They strolled for the most part in silence, lured on by the 


168 WINE OF FURY 

quiet of some shaded glen, the cheerful white of a secluded 
summer palace, or the gleam of blue water from one of the 
innumerable waterways. 

David regarded Natalie with a feeling of wonder that he 
had so long been unconscious of her beauty. Like so many 
other Russian women, she had little consideration for the lure 
of delicate fabrics and laces, but confined her dress to a 
simplicity of material, line and decoration which at first notice 
seemed sheer plainness. 

He saw how this simplicity referred attention to her features. 
How her neck rose in a strong, sweeping curve from the 
black velvet of her jacket, how gracefully it carried the firm 
modelling of her profile with no uncurved line or sharp 
angle in it, and how its poise seemed a natural and undisturb- 
able balance effected by the sable mass of her hair drawn 
back from the expanse of her forehead in gently wavering 
outline. He recalled a composite bust of ivory and ebony he 
had seen in a far-off gallery, the work of some medieval 
sculptor who, labouring with the infinite care of his art, had 
expressed in it the subtle anomaly of life’s complex simplicity. 

In the course of their wanderings a summer shower over¬ 
took them. Of a sudden the sun vanished and great drops 
of rain spattered among the leaves, making them dance merrily 
in the motionless air. David wanted to hasten along to one of 
the waterside restaurants for shelter. She seemed to have no 
desire to avoid the wet. “It won’t rain hard or long,” she 
said. “Let’s keep on.” 

“But you will get wet,” he expostulated. “Your clothes, 
your-” 

“Ah, David,” she said, looking up at him with the trace 
of a strange smile, “why do you always think of avoiding 
unpleasantness? Sometimes it can be turned to beauty. We 
oan’t get very wet here under the trees. We didn’t come 
here for our clothes, our appearance. We came because it 
is beautiful. It is enough. Let’s enjoy it. The rain gives 
the trees another kind of beauty; and it is beautiful too. 
Look, is it not so?” She bared her arm, held it outstretched 


THE WINE 169 

and raised it to his eyes with a few large drops glistening 
upon it like pearls. 

He forgot the rain. Later he could not have told just 
where in their wanderings it had ceased. 

They came to a restaurant where, at a table on the terrace 
beside the water, they had supper. They were alone under 
the striped awning of one corner table and quite content not 
to talk. They dreamed the evening through with the melodies 
from the hidden orchestra sighing in their ears. 

It was ten o’clock when they finished, and the sun, emerg¬ 
ing triumphant from the host of storm-clouds, had begun its 
colourful descent. Its fiery protest seen in patches through 
the foliage lured them still farther into the park. Eventually 
they came out on a rock-bordered point, and here on a bench, 
with the tinted waters of the gulf stretching away without 
end, they sat listening to the profound symphony of forest and 
ocean. 

Slowly the sun’s brilliance resolved to amber light which 
transformed the clouds to curdled flame. With deepening 
reluctance it sank to the inflexible horizon of the gulf and 
dropped beneath it to glower for a while in a crimson rage. 
Gone, the sky around celebrated briefly in an imperial 
magnificence of purple which faded to the spreading blue 
of the coming night. 

Watching, David could not overlook Natalie as part of 
the mutable splendour of his environment. He wondered 
whether her thoughts had slipped away to the isolated 
contemplation her expression indicated. Probably. Like so 
many of her people, she had inherent in her that power of 
complete self-detachment which enabled her to follow her 
spirit on whatever journeys it might embark; either short, for 
purpose of critical analysis—called introspection—of personal¬ 
ity left behind like a chrysalis, or the distant journey of a 
crisis which abandoned the chrysalis to the baffled forces of 
circumstance. It was the suspected presence of this power 
which long ago had led him to discard the hope of ever be¬ 
ing able fully to understand her. He realised again his in- 


170 WINE OF FURY 

ability to do so. But the prodigal beauty of their surround¬ 
ings and the accumulative happiness of their association 
prompted that, however vague the understanding might be, he 
nevertheless understood enough; that here was the living, un¬ 
shakable adherence to truth as discerned—a policy his educa¬ 
tion had pointed out to him but which the relentless pace of 
his chosen career had forced him to abandon; that she would 
thus bring to him the spiritual characteristics he lacked and 
thereby be the complement to a full existence; and that, 
beyond all this, he wanted her. 

Her white hand had slipped to the bench. He lifted it. 
Simultaneously he felt its start in his palm and the wide- 
open gaze of her dark eyes fixed directly and unwaveringly in 
his own. Deep in hers he again caught a fleeting glimpse of 
that spiritual power which disconcerted him. It developed the 
love in his gaze, softening the shadows of the passion aroused 
and heightening the lights of the reverence he felt for her 
strength. It affected even the action of his hand, and what 
started to be a clasp of desire ended in a humble, open gesture 
of offering. 

She saw it in his eyes and understood. She did not with¬ 
draw her hand. Her answer to the shadows was a lowering 
of her eyes; her response to the lights a firm pressure of 
her hand in his. 

The air had the stillness of death and the silence of wonder. 
The sky and water merged in the “white night’s’' all-pervading 
haze of pale china blue. Above floated the silver circlet of a 
new moon and below a far-off light thrust a rigid blade of 
flame deep into the gulf. Now and then the blade warped like 
the crinkled daggers the Persians had, as some unfelt breath 
moved on. . . . 


X 


Again with the Dukharins. 

The new status of his relations with Natalie had been strong 


T H E WI N E 171 

enough to lead David to her house from his desk. With 
evident satisfaction he again surveyed the familiar surround¬ 
ings, the shadows of the great dining-room with its pictures 
and souvenirs of hunts, the glow and gleam, under the low- 
hanging chandelier, of the table with the white napery, china 
and heavy silver, and the friendly faces of the General, the 
Princess and Natalie. 

She seemed radiant. From the first meeting of their glances 
as he entered the house he had scarcely once shifted his gaze 
from her. So attentive had he been that for a while the 
natural questions went unasked and the conversation started 
slowly. 

It was not until the second course that he noted Anna’s 
absence from the table. He reflected that he had not, as usual, 
caught glimpses of her as she skipped about the house or 
heard her trilling voice repeating excerpts from songs from 
distant rooms. “Where is Anna?” he asked. 

“In bed,” replied the Princess. “She is not well. One of 
those colds which threaten so much. You came too late to 
witness something of a scene when we made her retire. She’d 
planned to go to a party at the Sherbatzeffs’. I’m just as well 
pleased she’s not going. I didn’t like the look of things over 
Nevsky way when I drove there this afternoon. There was 
considerable excitement in the air.” 

“That’s the Loan of Freedom business, isn’t it?” commented 
David. “The selling campaign begins to-morrow.” 

“Yes,” agreed Natalie, “that’s what all the decorations are 
for. Trucks are to tour the streets carrying girls who are to 
sell the bonds. Some of us at the hospital were asked to help. 
The money must be needed badly.” 

“It is. The financial situation isn’t encouraging.” 

“What’s the opinion in the United States?” demanded the 
General. “What will be the report of the American mission 
which left here a few days ago?” 

“I’d like to know myself,” answered David. 

“I’m afraid the mission’s composition has worked against 
its usefulness. The corner orators are saying that it is a 


172 WINE OF FURY 

group of capitalists headed by a capitalist lawyer come to 
Russia to study the country in order to learn how best to 
exploit it.” 

David sprang to the defence of his country. “Do you mean 
to tell me that people will believe such to be the motives of 
the United States?” 

“My good friend,” shouted the General, “there are many, 
many people in Russia who, until they’re told, don’t know 
whether the United States is the name of a country or a new 
brand of sardines. They attribute any motive that comes to 
mind, the simpler and more elementary the readier.” 

The General was in fine fettle. He tore into his food 
savagely as usual while he talked and occasionally gave vent 
to a dish-rattling thump of his fist on the table as of old. 

“It’s too bad,” he continued, “that the mission did not wait 
a week or so longer. It might have seen something worth 
while reporting to the Government of the United States. This 
excitement in the streets, for instance.” 

“You don’t think anything will come of it, do you, father?” 
asked Natalie. 

“Perhaps not immediately,” the General answered, “but 
eventually, unless something is done to stop the agitators. 
They should be jailed, every one of them,” he exclaimed 
forcibly. 

“The leaders should he shot! But the Provisional Govern¬ 
ment is too uncertain of itself for that. This Kerensky is too 
fair-minded with those who disagree with him. He hesitates 
to use strong-arm methods, to swing the club. It’s got to be 
done here in Russia with things as they are. People don’t 
understand other means of government. Ignorance, of course. 
There are only two ways to deal with it: beat it or educate 
it. There’s no time now for education. Instead of being 
punished, those who are undermining the people’s confidence 
in the Government are allowed to continue under the protec¬ 
tion of the absurd principle of free speech. The German 
agents are everywhere in the streets and they are making great 
progress. They are doing everything in their power to bring 


THE WINE 173 

about chaos in Russia, a chaos which will mean Russia’s end 
as a military factor. Whether their efforts will succeed or 
not depends upon the Russian soldiers. Their support is 
necessary for the success of any government. If the agents 
can win them over to the Soviet side, the Soviet will get the 
power; but if the Provisional Government can retain them 
there is some chance of Russia pulling through. As in the 
Revolution, the ignorant soldier is the keystone. If he remains 
in the lines and fights it out, or even holds out, we can be 
hopeful; if he yields to the extremist and enemy agents and 

deserts, then-” The General raised his hands in a gesture 

of despair. 

His daughter spoke next. “It looks as though there was 
something terribly wrong with the system which left Russia 
with an ignorant mass upon whose judgment the fate of the 
nation could depend.” 

There was a long pause during which father and daughter 
gazed at each other steadfastly. David hoped the Princess 
would speak and change the subject, but she was preoccupied 
with straightening a hit of crumpled lace on her sleeve and 
had little attention for the clash of philosophies which 
Natalie’s remark had affected. 

Something had to be said. “What has become of Alexei?” 
he asked with an effort. “I haven’t seen him for a long 
time.” 

“If you came to see us more often you would see him,” 
replied Natalie, with a smile. “He spends much of his spare 
time here. He seems to be quite infatuated with Aneta.” 

“She encourages him in it too,” added the Princess. “I 
don’t see where she learned how, but she does.” 

“It doesn’t have to be learned,” interjected Natalie. 

“I don’t like it,” remarked the Princess. “I’d like to see 
the affair broken off. I almost wish this Naritza would lead 
him off again. That would show the child that Alexei 
wouldn’t do as much for her as she did for him when she 
followed him on that escapade to Moscow.” 

“I don’t think it would be wise to interfere,” said Natalie. 



174 WINE OF FURY 

“It would only make things worse. I don’t think Alexei is 
as much infatuated with Aneta as he is infatuated with his 
sentiment for her. Anna must see this for herself.” 

The sound of excited voices came from the hallway. The 
curtains were flung violently apart and Alexei, face flushed 
with exertion and eyes wide open with excitement, stepped 
into the room, his sabre clattering against the door-jamb as 
he turned the angle sharply. “Where is Anna?” he demanded 
before anyone could speak. “Quick. Don’t look at me like 
that. Where is she?” 

Surprise rendered speechless those at the table. They 
stared in silence at Alexei’s mobile face. To David the abrupt 
manner of his appearance and his position before the curtains 
brought back the memory of that painful evening when 
Radkin had stood on that same spot between the two police 
guards, the victim of his selfishness. 

“Don’t sit there like that,” cried the boy in real anguish. 
“Say something. Where is she? Tell me.” 

The General was the first to speak. “She is upstairs in 
bed,” he replied bluntly. 

“In bed,” echoed Alexei, as though the realisation was too 
heavy with joy for him to bear. “Thank God!” And as 
gratitude overwhelmed him, he sank on to the high-backed 
chair beside him. “Are you sure that she’s there?” he de¬ 
manded suddenly, his face raised to the light and anxiety 
again distending his glistening eyes. 

This was too much for the General. He had recovered 
his composure and he glared at Alexei as a general should 
at a lieutenant who questions the accuracy of his pronounce¬ 
ments. “Of course she is!” he shouted. “I kissed her ‘calm 
night’ myself. Why the-” 

It was Natalie who, in rising, had put her quieting fingers 
over her father’s mouth. She went to Alexei’s side, placed 
her hand upon his shoulder and said: “Yes, Alosha, we are 
sure of it.” 

His words floundered in the wake of his emotion. “She was 
going to the Sherbatzeffs’ to-night. I ran all the way there. 



T H E WI N E 175 

She had not come. I ran all the way here. There’s shooting 
in the streets again. I thought she might have been caught 
in it.” 

“Again!” The voices of the others echoed his word. 

“Yes,” he confirmed. “They’re at it again. See.” He 
exhibited a neat hole in the flare of his breeches. “I got that 
running across the Palace Square. If you don’t believe it, 
you can hear the firing if you open the door.” 

Natalie led the way to the front entrance. From the steps 
they listened, and from across the river in the direction of the 
Nevsky came the familiar crackle of rifle-fire interspersed now 
and then with the staccato r-r-r-r-i-p of machine-guns, like 
the tearing of a tough piece of cloth. They listened for a 
moment silently and as the full appreciation dawned they 
looked helplessly from one to the other. 

Alexei broke the silence. As he descended to the walk he 
remarked with all his old casual bravado: “Well, I must go 
along home now.” 

“Don’t go now, my boy. Stay here until it is over,” called 
the General, who had been quite touched, in spite of his gruff 
manner, by the boy’s evident devotion to his daughter. 

Alexei shook his head. “No, home for me. I must see 
that mother is not frightened.” He was off down the Kamenno- 
Ostroffski, his lithe figure in its tight uniform almost exert¬ 
ing itself to a run. 

Confused shouting and the barking of dogs mingled with 
the distant firing. The General, the Princess and Pasha, the 
old servant, who had also come to the door to hear, turned 
back into the house. “Now what is it?” queried the Princess 
plaintively, clinching her beringed fingers tightly. “What do 
they want now?” 

The General rubbed his hand across his eyes as though 
striving to clear them in order that he might see the answer. 
“God knows,” he said; and then, his gruff voice becoming a 
whisper in its intensity: “They are mad . . . mad.” 

David stood at the top step. Natalie turned an anxious 
countenance to him. “You are not going too?” she asked, 


176 WINEOFFURY 

and as she saw the answer in his determined gaze she placed 
her hand upon his arm. “Please,” she said, “don’t. Please.” 

The entreaty in her voice stopped him. He turned towards 
her on the step and indecision wavered in his mind. Every 
fibre in him yearned to remain, but as he almost yielded there 
arose again the sense of his responsibility. The institution 
entrusted to his care beckoned; even through the steel plates 
of the safe door the dull gleam of the concealed gold drew 
him like a mighty lodestone. If anything should happen— 
it was impossible that he should not be there. He saw the 
nodding heads of the solemn executives in the New York office 
confirm his decision. Details of the struggle must have shown 
in his eyes, for as Natalie’s appealing glance searched them 
he saw from her expression that she understood. “I must,” 
he blurted in response to her appeal, and he descended to 
the sidewalk. All the way down to the first turn he strode, 
trying to reconcile the conflicting emotions which refused to be 
stilled by his decision and conscious that she stood at the door 
watching him in puzzled despair. 


XI 

As David progressed and the noise of the shots grew louder* 
their intensity diminished, and by the time he arrived at the 
entrance to the bridge they had become but a few stray pops. 

What was it all about? Was it political? Was it, as the 
General had prophesied, an attempt by the Soviet to wrest the 
power from the Provisional Government? 

Across the great Troitski Bridge trickled an intermittent 
stream of pedestrians and vehicles, which quickened its cur¬ 
rent as a violent outburst of rifle and machine-gun fire 
came from Nevsky way. The bridge lamps, which had already 
been alight although the sun was still high above, went out. 
Automobile horns sounded frantically; shouts and cries and 
the barking of dogs mingled with the shots in fearful 
pandemonium. 


THE WINE 177 

He quickened his pace against the contrary current on the 
bridge. Arrived on the quay-side he turned down towards the 
building which comprised his domain, and as he did so he 
noted the broad, flat, dirt expanse of the Field of Mars 
stretching far off to the left. Gathered in front of the line of 
barracks which extended along one side stood a crowd of 
soldiers shading their hands to gaze at the green depths of 
the Summer Garden opposite. 

Suddenly rifles began to pop and spit somewhere beyond 
the Garden; a few at first, which grew into volleys and then 
became a storm, the bullets whining overhead and flickering 
up clouds of dust like spurts of brown spray on the surface 
of the parade-ground. 

Pedestrians, some intent upon business, others curious, 
scurried for any kind of cover, doorways, windows, lamp- 
posts, trolley-poles, anything that might afford even the least 
shelter. The crowd of soldiers lost interest, broke up like a 
swarm of ants and scattered to concealment in the barracks 
and behind their great pillars. David, in sight of his goal, 
hurried and broke into a run. 

In front of him, far down the quay where the Winter Palace 
raised its reddish mass, there came an answering crack! crack! 
and r-r-r-r-i-p of machine-guns. It caught him between the 
two fires with only fifty yards more to go. Afraid to make 
a dash for the entrance to his building on the quay, he took 
refuge round the corner of the narrow side-street. 

The firing continued steadily, an uninterrupted snarl of 
machine-guns testifying to the experience of the manipulating 
hands. The sound dashed in waves against the wall of the 
Palace and reverberated from the parallel sides of the Stock 
Exchange across the river. Couples of students and girls 
joined him. One of the young men knew all about the 
situation and insisted upon explaining it. Curious soldiers 
came from the rear of the barracks, attracted by the greater 
intensity of firing on this side, and an old fellow on a bicycle 
tore down the quay, hopped off to mop his face with a crimson 
handkerchief and tell excitedly that there was fighting going on, 


178 WINE OF FURY 

hopped on again to pedal away frantically, murmuring 
“Thank God!” over something. A motor truck lumbered 
round the corner and having in mind, no doubt, the truck- 
loads of soldiers which had formerly careened about the city 
dispersing groups during the day, someone intimated that the 
soldiers might let fly a volley. The suggestion served the 
purpose of the volley; the group of corner refugees scattered 
and, as the truck trundled harmlessly past, reassembled. The 
firing alternated from steady bursts to straggling shots and 
David determined to run for the door during one of the lulls. 
His companions walked away one by one, the last bidding him 
a “calm night” with true Russian courtesy just as he resumed 
his way to the entrance. 

Inside the building everything was as it should be. No one 
had come; as far as the guards knew, not even & bullet had 
touched the building. 

He mounted the stairs to the banking floor and made the 
rounds of the spacious rooms which the staff had hours ago 
left deserted. In his own office he sank into his desk-chair, 
there to watch and doze throughout a night of apprehension. 


XII 

Among the many skirmishes incident to the greater struggle 
going on in the city during the next few days was that in 
the Dukharin home. The General battled with an invisible 
enemy, which, after a surprise attack on the night of the out¬ 
break in the streets, invaded his lungs and resisted his most 
determined efforts to dislodge it. 

The following morning congestion set in and, giving way 
to the insistent demands of his family, the robust and bellig¬ 
erent General remained indoors, moving little from the swivel- 
chair in his study. He considered it shameful to be ill and 
resented others even inferring such a thing by their attempts 
to minister to him. He shut himself in the room, roaring like 
a wounded lion when anyone save Natalie came near. His 


THE WINE 179 

elder daughter, who humoured him, treating him as though 
nothing were the matter, he allowed to come and go as she 
pleased in order that she might keep him informed of events 
in the streets. 

There was little that might be considered new. Rumours 
held sway. It seemed as though the atmosphere were laden 
with them as with dust-motes. Natalie, who went her way 
about the city under the partial protection of her uniform, 
returned from each sally forth with a goodly supply of these 
rumours. 

“The whole business is an attempt at ‘counter-Revolution.’ ” 

“The whole business is an uprising against the Provisional 
Government by the forces of the Council of Workmen’s and 
Soldiers’ Deputies, or the Soviet, under the direction of one 
Nicholas Lenin, who has come to Petrograd from Switzer¬ 
land by way of Germany. He and his advocates are called 
Extremists, Maximalists, Bolsheviki.” 

Some said they would succeed; others said they would 
fall; the opinion, according to Natalie, depending much upon 
the individual desire. 

Similarly conflicting were nearly all the reports of the 
struggle. 

“Only a few have been injured.” 

“More have been killed already than all through the Revolu¬ 
tion of February and March.” 

“All the Ministry, including Kerensky, has resigned.” 

“Only a few ministers have resigned and Kerensky still 
holds office.” 

“Kerensky has returned to Petrograd from the front.” 

“Kerensky left Petrograd fifteen minutes ahead of a deputa¬ 
tion sent to arrest him.” 

And so forth. The truth was not known. 

The visible things were known. All through the day 
parades filed across the bridges and squares; soldiers and 
workmen in arms and soldiers from Kronstadt, drawn thither 
by the report of “counter-revolution.” 

Desultory shooting rendered the streets unsafe. On the 


180 WINE OF FURY 

main thoroughfares shops were smashed—a liberty not in¬ 
dulged in during the Revolution—and the supplies distributed 
to those who would take. Articles which could not be taken 
were smashed. Trucks were confiscated and filled with joy¬ 
riding soldiers. Banks closed and all business ceased. In the 
streets automobiles were stalled, and here and there a 
splintered carriage stood behind the carcase of a horse. In 
one side-street an armoured car had been deliberately run 
into by a motor truck and both vehicles transformed into use¬ 
less junk. In another, under the profusion of shrubbery of 
a private garden, lay a regular row of the stiff, ugly forms of 
victims of the futile, asinine business. 

Bands of Cossacks made the rounds of the city with carbines 
and lances ready, sometimes walking their horses, sometimes 
galloping as of yore down the sidewalks. Towards evening 
there was a mad, thundering rush of them down the Millionaya, 
young officers in the lead, yelling, brandishing their sabres, 
and hurtling along with them three field-pieces—all bent on 
the shattering of a distant barricade. 

Natalie had watched them out of sight down the quay past 
the Summer Garden before resuming her way. Came an 
eruption of shooting from the direction of their passing, 
punctuated by the reverberating crash of one of the field- 
guns. Then the drumming of hoofs bore down upon her and 
she had barely taken refuge close to the fence along the canal 
when eight or ten riderless horses galloped back in the direc¬ 
tion from which they had so recently borne their riders. 

She continued on her way in spite of the straggling shots. 
These, however, were soon silenced when Jupiter Pluvius, as 
though scornful of the puny sounds of mankind, massed his 
own battalions, let loose the heavy artillery of his thunder 
and the shrapnel of his rain, which fell in a curtain of fire. 

Under it, all disturbances in the streets had ceased. “You 
know,” said Natalie, after relating her experiences to her 
father, “no one likes to fight when wet, and I sometimes 
wonder if a high-pressure hose or two wouldn’t do more to 
stop these street fights than all the machine-guns in the city.” 


THE WINE 181 

“No,” replied the General, whacking the arm of the chair 
with his open palm, “it wouldn’t do. They’d come out again 
to fight. But if you shoot ’em they can’t come out again. 
Yes, I say, the ringleaders should be shot. What is it all 
about? What do they want? Ninety-nine out of a hundred 
of those mixed up in the street fracas don’t know, haven’t 
any real interest. They are misled by the ringleaders who 
are working not for their followers, not for the good of Russia, 
but for themselves. And they find the ignorant easy in¬ 
struments of their designs. Ignorance! What can you do 
with it?” 

The next morning the General did not rise. His lungs 
were more congested, and he decided to remain in bed, but 
sitting up in it. In spite of attempts at his usual bluff 
manner, Natalie saw reflected in his eyes the struggle which 
even this slight exertion elicited. He demanded that his 
uniform and sabre be placed on a chair beside his bed. “If 
the fighting gets serious and the safety of the Government is 
threatened, by the Eternal!” he exclaimed hoarsely, “I’ll get 
out and join it. The scoundrels!” And he sank back upon 
the pile of pillows. 

Well aware of his bellicose tendencies and familiar with 
his often expressed desire to die fighting, the family feared 
that in a moment of excitement he might make good his threat 
and they therefore formed a conspiracy to keep someone in 
the room with him at all times. The Princess, with her excess 
of sympathy, annoyed him, although he would not admit it 
even to himeslf; and Anna, exuberant with her youthful 
vivacity and absorbed completely with her love for Alexei, 
saddened him. It was Natalie for whose return from each of 
her numerous excursions he waited. 

In the morning the Cossacks patrolled as usual. “And,” 
said Natalie to her father, “I talked with some of them. They 
have lost ten of their men and some thirty of their horses. 
They are determined upon revenge. ‘We can always get more 
men,’ they say, ‘but such horses—never.’ ” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the General upon hearing this, “they are 


182 WINE OF FURY 

the men for you, the Cossacks. Why aren’t they let loose and 
permitted to clean these Bolshevik advocates of socialism and 
separate peace out of their holes like rats. Why does this 
Kerensky hesitate to use them?” 

“He may see a way out without having to use them,” replied 
his daughter. “I think he hopes to settle the whole thing 
without useless slaughter. Kerensky is a generous and good 
man.” 

“Generous! Bah!” snorted the General. “Maybe; but you 
can’t fight thieves and traitors with generosity and goodness. 
Exterminate ’em, that’s the only way.” 

Natalie saw the motor trucks filled with armed soldiers, 
displaying the familiar red banners, trundle the rounds of the 
streets, stopping at the bridge entrances to leave reinforce¬ 
ments to the already heavy guards. She also met David, who 
was on the way across the river to inquire after the General’s 
health. He failed to carry out his intention because rumour 
had it that some time during the day the bridges would be 
lifted in order to prevent the concentration of the various 
forces of the uprisers. It transpired that the major forces of 
the Maximalists or Bolsheviki had assembled in the Fortress of 
Peter and Paul and the Kshesinskaya Palace near by and that 
the lifting of the bridges would effectively cut them off. 

It also cut off the distribution of food among the various 
districts. All shops closed and in consequence food was 
scarce. The Dukharin meals for the day, in spite of Natalie’s 
best efforts to secure supplies, consisted of thin cabbage soup, 
chunks of black bread, and tea without milk or sugar. 

Rumour accelerated its pace, running wild over the city. 

“The Government is falling.” 

“All the Ministry, even Kerensky, will resign.” 

“The Government is assuming a firm hand.” 

“The ministers are aiding Kerensky with all possible 
means.” 

“The Palace and Fortress across the river, the Bolshevik 
headquarters, are to be bombarded and cleaned out.” 

“Soldiers are coming from the front to re-establish order 


THE WINE 183 

in the city. The present garrisons are unable to do it be¬ 
cause many of their number have gone over to the opposition.” 

“To-morrow will see civil war.” 

To-morrow emerged cloudless and brilliant from the brief 
darkness of the “white night.” It found General Dukharin 
unable to sit up. The congestion in his lungs had intensified 
and he lay stretched on his back, his face flushed with fever, 
and motionless save for the restless movement of his hands 
and fingers over the coverlet. He still refused to admit any 
serious illness, and made desperate, futile efforts to speak in 
his old vigorous tones, tones which were lost in his thickened 
throat. 

He gesticulated in protest when Natalie attempted to move 
his uniform and sabre from the chair beside the bed, and 
eventually managed to whisper intensely: “Leave them. I 
may need them. If it comes to a fight, I intend to be in it.” 

She neither smiled nor spoke her belief that he was quite 
unable to indulge in any activity, realising that it is even more 
tragic to dispel the illusions of age than those of youth. 
Furthermore, in spite of what she knew to be his wishes and 
without word of her intention, she started out across the city 
for the family doctor. 

The shutting down of the telephone system under the 
exigencies of the struggle made such a course imperative; and 
the absence of means of transportation either by tram or 
carriage made walking necessary. She accepted the situation 
without fear—it might be said with satisfaction, since it 
afforded her another opportunity to visit the hospital school. 

She found the Winter Palace Square a veritable arsenal. 
Armoured cars and motor trucks lined it, and thousands of 
troops equipped with machine-guns and light artillery stood 
ready to man them. The Palace constituted the headquarters 
of the military commander of the city. Patrols of Cossacks 
barred entrance to the Summer Garden and the Field of Mars. 
At the entrance of the Troitski Bridge were machine-guns, and 
along the quay as far as she could see on either side stood 
field-guns almost wheel to wheel, all trained upon the strong- 


184 WINE OF FURY 

holds of the opposition, the Kshesinskaya Palace and the 
Fortress of Peter and Paul across the Neva. Far down the 
river lay a gunboat with its guns also manned and sighted. 
Rumour had it that aeroplanes were in readiness to drop 
their bombs at the outbreak of open hostilities. 

Under these guns and in the face of the rumoured threats, 
the Fortress remained squat and imperturbable. From it came 
neither sign nor sound of life. Its huge walls reared their 
dark masses in the centre of the city’s colourful buildings like 
some abandoned relic of an ancient time. The flag hanging 
over it since the Revolution looked unknowably old. Once in 
a while, in answer to some faint breath, it stirred its be¬ 
draggled folds and tatters listlessly, as though ashamed to 
exhibit how far the symbol of the Revolution had faded from 
its early flaunting scarlet. 

People said that an ultimatum had been sent by the Pro¬ 
visional Government warning the occupants of the Fortress 
that unless they surrendered by midday the bombardment 
would begin. Also that a reply had come to the effect that 
the opening of such a bombardment would entail a counter¬ 
bombardment by the guns of the Fortress. 

As though reinforcing the ultimatum, a regiment of cycle 
soldiers filed down the quay and across the bridge. That they 
were seasoned troops from the front, their thin, bronzed faces, 
the worn look of their equipment and the completeness of it 
showed. Slowly and in precise order, keeping the front 
wheels of their cycles in line, they rolled across the bridge 
with an irresistible sweep and in a methodical, businesslike 
manner took up positions about the Fortress. 

It was a strange scene—these men calmly preparing for 
the killing, the grim Fortress without a sign of life, the ranks 
of cannon lining the quay and leering across the mighty, 
shimmering Neva, and over it all the incandescent sunlight. 

The doctor was terrified by the preparations for slaughter. 
He threatened at each block to turn back towards the home 
from which Natalie had cajoled him. But she prevailed and 


THE WINE 185 

thanks to her uniform they were permitted to cross the bridge 
in the wake of the troops. 

At the General’s bedside the doctor went through the usual 
evolutions of pulse-counting, temperature-taking and heart-and- 
lung-sounding. Finished, he stood in silence for a full min¬ 
ute, more serious than Natalie had ever seen him in their 
house before. He ended by writing prescriptions and promis¬ 
ing to return soon. When Natalie reminded him that all the 
chemists’ shops were closed, he consented to try to get the 
prescriptions filled himself. 

She accompanied him back again across the bridge until 
success finally rewarded them in a shop far up the Nevsky. 
Hours passed before they were again in the sickroom, and 
during these hours much had happened in the city. 

The arrival of the bicycle troops evidently made the Rol- 
sheviki consider the ultimatum seriously. They gave in at 
midday. 

On their way back to the house Natalie and the doctor met 
the bands of workmen, loafers and soldiers who had cast 
their lot with the extremists being marched under guard down 
the streets, without guns, shoulder-straps or honour. They 
were supposedly to be sent to the first-line trenches at the 
front. 

The revolt of the extremists was over. The Provisional 
Government had won its victory without unnecessary bloodshed. 
Results had vindicated the policy of Kerensky. 

Natalie felt that the news would be better for her father 
than the medicine she carried. 

The sick man fixed his inflamed eyes upon her as she re¬ 
counted the day’s events. The successful outcome of the 
struggle pleased him less than she had hoped. “Have . . . 
they . . . shot . . . the ring . . . leaders?” he gasped. 

“No, father dear,” she answered with elation; “they are be¬ 
ing exiled from the country—at least those who have not 
already escaped. It’s over. There’s no use in shooting 
them.” 


186 WINE OF FURY 

A groan fought its way through the General’s tightly closed 
lips. He said no more. His eyes closed and his fingers 
resumed their restless activity along the coverlet’s edge. 

The doctor remained until late at night, doing his best to 
strengthen the sick man. But he was plainly baffled. He 
saw that his efforts were not of much avail. Worry, too, for 
the safety of members of his own family, to whom he could 
not even telephone, quavered in his mind. Finally, within an 
hour of midnight, when the motion of the patient had ceased 
and he seemed to be resting easier, the doctor left, promising 
an early morning return. 

Natalie took her place at her father’s bedside while the 
others tried to sleep. He lay still, his massive head sunk deep 
into the pillow; and the only signs of life were the sounds of 
short breaths snatched at long intervals. 

Towards three o’clock, when the morning sun cut shorter 
the short night and lighted up the cracks in the drawn, black 
window shades, he turned his head and fixed such a burning 
look upon something through and far beyond her that she 
hurried to arouse the Princess and Anna. 

They came to the bedside. The servants, hearing and in¬ 
terpreting the unaccustomed activity at this strange hour, 
gathered about the entrance to the room in a silent, sorrowful 
group. 

The General’s gaze rested upon his uniform and sabre on 
the chair beside the bed. With effort he raised himself upon 
one elbow and reached a gnarled, quivering hand towards 
these emblems of his former glory. The exertion was too 
much for him. With a gasp he sank back into Natalie’s wait¬ 
ing arms. His lips moved, and the words came forth clearly: 
. . crushes the weak; the strong . . . it . . . eludes.” 

The Princess, weeping audibly, took his great hand in hers. 
Anna, kneeling beside the bed, clung to the broad chest be¬ 
neath the coverlet, pressing her cheek and dark hair close to 
it in dry-throated despair. Receding strength left the strug¬ 
gling man too weak to stroke the beloved head with his free 
hand. 


187 


THE WINE 

The intervals of his breathing lengthened. Eventually, as 
those who loved him waited, they realised that an endless 
interval had come. 


XIII 

These were lonely days for Masha. Ordinarily she required 
little for complete happiness—only the strong curve of Foma’s 
arm round her waist or the firm clasp of his hand. But with 
these gone, happiness, too, was not. The long days lacked 
brightness and the long empurpled evenings lost in splendour. 

Foma was not there. Why had she allowed him to go? 

At first when his assurances that he would not be away 
more than two months hovered in her ears she had consoled 
herself with anticipation of her happiness when he did return. 
Now months were gone, and no word. Even as she thought of 
him he might be crumpled in agony in a trench or stretched 
stark beside a dusty road. 

During the day, filled with work, it was not so bad, although 
sometimes, in the long lines which extended far out from each 
food-shop door, she did tire of the chatter of her companions 
and allow her thoughts to wander back to him. Evenings 
found it different. Her time was her own. How to spend it? 

To remain at home was to sit until bedtime thinking of him. 
What was he doing? Was he thinking of her? Was be 
happy away from her? Was he well? Was he—this thought 
usually drove her out under the sky—was he even alive? No, 
it was impossible to remain home. 

To go out either meant to accompany the others to the 
Narodny Dom, where, for a few kopecks, were moving pictures, 
tea, sunflower seeds and other enjoyable things. But what 
was the fun of buying them for oneself? The sight of other 
girls smiling delightedly as their soldier friends bought them 
one thing after another made her long for Foma—how he 
would slap the kopecks down on the counters and demand the 
best for her! 


188 WINE OF FURY 

Either this or to stroll in the park . . . alone—she would 
have none of the clumsy louts who presented themselves to her 
on the street—and there to see only the happy, oblivious 
couples as they walked arm in arm beneath the overshading 
trees. Walk alone with these, she could not; nor did watch¬ 
ing them from a bench lighten the burden of loneliness which 
rested on her spirit. 

Returned to her room after one such evening she resolved 
to write Foma a letter. She had not written previously be¬ 
cause of his promised early return. Now, however, he had 
been away months. 

So the letter, after a long evening of hard, patient work, 
was written: 

Darling Foma Ivanovitch, —How is your health? Why do you not 
send word to your Masha? When are you coming back to Petrograd? 
You said you would not be away more than a few months. It is now 
three months since you left me. It is very beautiful here now. In the 
evening the sky is at first like cherries and then like grapes. I walk 
out under it alone. Many soldiers speak to me and ask me to walk 
With them, but I think only of you. Do you think of me? I hope so. 
I think of you all day. It helps me to do my work. When the pots 
and pans are very dirty and it is hard to clean them I think of your face 
when you were very small and scrub thoroughly but carefully as I did 
then. Has there been much fighting, Foma Ivanovitch? The soldiers 
here say that there was much fighting in June, but that there will be no 
more. I hope that you are careful, Foma beloved, even when there is 
no fighting. The Germans might send men over to capture so good a 
soldier as you who have fought much and won the Cross of St. George. 
Yesterday I saw Vassili Illytch from the village. He asked about you. 
I could tell him nothing. He says that all is well in the village except 
that Babushka Zimeleva is dead. My mother is well. My father is 
well. Your mother is well. And, Foma, I did not tell you. After the 
sky has been purple for a long time it fades away to light blue and the 
stars come out and I hurrry home. From my window I can see one big, 
very big star. It is your star. I reach my arms out to it and ask 
when you are coming back to stand within them. When are you, 
Foma? You know, when people love each other as we do it is not 
right for them to be so far apart. Too much can happen that should 


T H E WI N E 189 

not happen. You remember the words of our song, Foma: ‘And the 
Fairy’s tied our hearts with a golden strand.’ Well, the strand is 
stretched too long, too far, Foma dear. Every night my heart pulls 
at it to draw you nearer. May God bless and keep you. Yours very 
truly, 

Masha. 


XIV 

To David the most immediate and noticeable result of the 
futile uprising was the deluge of new business for his bank. 
It seemed as though nearly everyone of means in Russia 
brought money to him. The line of depositors in the outer 
office sometimes extended to the stairs, and in it people stood 
for hours who never before had condescended to handle “dirty 
money,” having always sent a secretary or a servant on such 
missions. Every day at closing time there ensued an incipient 
mob scene as would-be clients surged against the doors in an 
effort to transfer the responsibility for their fortunes to this 
new American institution of apparently unshakable stability. 

He accepted the situation. Why not? Cable discussion of 
it with the officials in New York had left him free to go 
ahead as far as he could. One could not turn away profitable 
business brought by clients of excellent standing, clients who, 
when conditions again stabilised, would contribute distinctly 
to the repute of his institution. 

The political outlook encouraged him. The potential source 
of grave political trouble had been eliminated by the sup¬ 
pression of the extremists. The worst had been attempted and 
it had failed. The Provisional Government, strengthened by 
its success, had reaffirmed its determination to conduct Russia 
to victory and peace in concord with her allies. 

On this basis, he asked himself, why not go ahead and 
accept the golden opportunity poured at his feet? 

Within two weeks the final figures on his balance-sheet 
again doubled. Within four weeks he estimated that they 


190 WINE OF FURY 

would be approaching a total which had been thought only 

possible after years of effort. 

The growth became the sensation of financial circles. Com¬ 
ments upon it appeared in foreign journals, and it even drew 
a cable of commendation from the nodding grey-heads at 
home. 

All this came not without its price—a price demanded and 
paid in human effort. The young men who had been with 
him from the beginning extended their already over-long 
working hours in an endeavour to keep up with the inrush of 
new business. 

David found himself drawn into the whirlpool with them. 
The flood of detail encroached upon his executive duties and 
gradually came to demand more and more of his time. Like 
his assistants, he appeared on the scene early; like them and 
with them, he climbed the stairs at meal-times to the common 
dining-room and shared the meagre meal; and, like them, he 
left his place in the office late at night. 

At first he greeted the opportunity with enthusiasm. He 
performed his task with gusto. Was it not the approach to 
the realisation of his dreams? 

But gradually the realisation of such dreams became only 
monotonous, grinding work with the zest omitted—work which 
varied little save in amount, so that its execution resolved into 
routine which he followed mechanically. It was a laborious, 
exacting dream. While it continued to complete part of his 
work, he submitted to it without question. Other consequences 
of the routine he did not consider. 

Occasionally distant noise and rumour of encompassing 
events came to him—rumours of soldiers at the front refusing 
to fight and leaving the trenches to the pleasure of the enemy; 
of increased agitation in the streets for the seizure of the 
power by the extremists, the declaration of immediate peace 
and the establishment of a socialistic order; of sections of the 
army repudiating this agitation and carrying out attacks 
against the enemy position; of resignations of ministers 


T H E WIN E 191 

threatening the fall of the Government; of troops of female 
soldiers drilling in the city and fighting at the front where 
men had refused to fight; of the increasing scarcity of food 
and the great length of the bread lines; of the German troops 
massing before Riga; of the outbreak of plagues in the city; 
of the enemy driving the Russians from the wheatfields which 
they ploughed, planted and cared for and harvesting the crops 
for their own use; of the evacuation of Kiev before the enemy 
advance; of the disbanding of recalcitrant troops and their 
scattering over the country; of the murder of officers by 
soldiers whose committees sat in judgment; and of the ex¬ 
tremists in convention assembled voting to uphold their dis¬ 
credited and banished leaders of the late uprising. 

Such were some of the rumours which filtered through the 
nebula of detachment that had formed between the rigid circle 
of his duties and the surrounding circumstances of life. He 
heard and dismissed them without consideration. 

Similarly he dismissed his personal affairs. The thought 
that he should be contributing actively to his country’s part in 
the war still haunted him. He had even intimated it in a 
letter to the New York office. The reply was not long forth¬ 
coming. “Each man,” it ran, “should remain where he is of 
the greatest use. You are undoubtedly of more use to your 
country where you are in upholding American trade than you 
would be in the army. The army does not need you. There 
are enough men available here for fighting, whereas in your 
present post you cannot be replaced. Stick to it.” He was 
following the advice. It seemed to be logical. 

He often wondered about Radkin. Since that day when 
Radkin had vanished in the crowd after speaking for the 
Soviet in the square before the Kshesinskaya Palace David 
had neither seen nor heard of him. He wanted to talk to the 
man and learn his reasons for supporting the extremists. “I 
wonder how he feels about it now, when they’ve made their 
attempt at taking over the government and failed,” he thought. 
In a way, too, he was afraid to meet Radkin. The memory of 


192 WINE OF FURY 

his exposure to the police was still fresh. “I wonder what he 
would say to me. Some day we shall meet face to face. What 
shall I say? What will he say?” 

He did not know. He recalled the prophecy which Radkin 
had made that day as they watched the crowds from the dome 
of the cathedral. The vision of the Russian giant still lingered 
in his mind. “He was right,” he thought. “The giant has 
awakened; he has shaken off the bonds; he is rising to his 
feet.” 

The food situation continued on its unalleviated descent. 
No milk, no sugar, no eggs; and meat which he regarded with 
suspicion. He supplied his servants with plenty of money 
in order that they might seek out the best for him. But often 
the shops were closed and there was none at all in the city to 
be had. Then the money was not of much use. Which was a 
new sensation for him. 

Despite the difficulty of work under such conditions, it was 
his life’s work to which he was giving his time, and he could 
therefore have been supremely happy save for one considera¬ 
tion—Natalie. He wanted to see her more often. 

The want went largely unsatisfied because of the pressure 
of his work, and because the death of her father left Natalie 
unwilling to appear much in public. 

If anything, this sad event deepened her devotion to her 
duty at the hospital school. She attended regularly now. In 
fact it was the conflict of her presence there with the few spare 
minutes he had free which impressed David with her devotion. 
She too was engaged in a task which demanded an increasing 
amount of her time and strength. 

One of the nurses expressed it for him one evening as he 
waited for Natalie in the rest-room: “Without Natalie 
Mikhailovna we could not go on. Quarrels would not be 
settled. Distrust and jealousy would grow. We couldn’t get 
the money we need. She makes up the quarrels. No one 
doubts her sincerity; and no one can be jealous of her. She 
has accepted no reward for her work. Neither money nor 


THE WINE 193 

decorations. We need money now and we are certain that 
she will find some way of getting what we need.” 

One evening they were walking down the quay towards the 
hospital and as they were about to turn down a side-street 
Natalie stopped to talk with a friend who had hailed her from 
a passing carriage. David strolled along and waited a few 
steps down the street. Her conversation ended, Natalie 
watched her friend’s carriage disappear round the corner. As 
she turned to join him there happened one of those incidents 
for which every resident of Petrograd had to be prepared. A 
whining hum sounded overhead and a bullet bit viciously into 
the wall of the building beside her, scattering a shower of 
plaster dust. From far across the river the crack of the shot 
reached their ears. Natalie stopped short, but did not jump 
back. Had she done so, she would have met death in the 
succession of bullets which smacked into the wall behind her 
from the invisible veering machine-gun across the river. 
Horror swept over David like a deluge of icy water as he 
stared helplessly. Followed an angonising moment of silence 
and immobility, broken by Natalie’s frightened run from the 
quay to the shelter of the side-street. 

Within a few seconds it had begun and ended. The crackle 
of the gun was stopped as peremptorily as it had broken out, 
and whether it was by intent or accident would never be 
known. 

David hurried to her side. She said nothing. Her face 
was white. She looked up at him, a dazed expression in her 
eyes. He wanted to speak. The closeness of the escape from 
having her snatched away from him prevented. He touched 
her elbow, presumably to lead her away. An effluence of 
uncontrollable strength made him take her in his arms. She 
did not resist. He felt the trembling of her body against his 
own, and the pressure of her fingers on the muscles of his 
arm. For a moment they stood there, clinging tightly to each 
other. Then, avoiding his gaze and faltering words, she 
hurried from him towards the hospital. 


194 WINE OF FURY 

As he walked back to his office a new feeling enveloped him. 
She loved him. With her in his arms that was to him as much 
a fact as his own existence. He felt that she had always 
loved him; that the necessity for development of their emotion 
had all been on his side; that she would continue to love him 
no matter what happened. She trusted him. Him. David 
Rand. He had never before been trusted like that. Elation 
stirred him. His strength seemed redoubled. He mounted 
the stairs to his office two at a time. Inside, he strode to his 
desk and regarded the documents awaiting him there in an 
orderly pile. Easy! He could attend to them in an hour! 
The world, life, was exhilarating! 

“When can I ask her to marry me?” he thought. “It 
would not be fair to ask her until I can point to my own suc¬ 
cess as an established fact.” 

That would be soon. Surely, if things continued at their 
present pace, his bank would shortly attain proportions which 
would dispel any uncertainty of its future. 

But he did not finish his work in an hour. Neither that 
day, the next—nor the next. He strove desperately to dispose 
of the most important matters in order that he might meet her 
at the hospital or call upon her at the quiet house on the 
Kamenno-Ostroffski. “I must see her,” he exclaimed to him¬ 
self. “Love is selfish and I love her.” 

But the letters on his desk held him within the room as 
though each separate sheet had been an inviolable sentence of 
confinement. 


XV 

Meanwhile the magnet of the sun drew people to the streets 
and life. The sidewalks were crowded with aimless wanderers 
—people impelled this way and drawn that, hurrying, strug¬ 
gling, hating, loving, living; in spite of war, in spite of 
revolution, subject to the inertia of years which kept them 
in normal paths during the whirlwind of abnormal events. 


THE WINE 195 

They stood in curious groups before the dilapidated decora¬ 
tions put up for the Loan of Freedom campaign on buildings 
lining the Nevsky. Instead of the loan these recalled the 
uprising which had begun upon the appointed day. Instead 
of speakers for the loan these gay platforms had held speakers 
for communism and anarchy; instead of trucks loaded with 
costumed men and women touring the city selling the bonds, 
there had been truck-loads of armed soldiers and clanking 
armoured cars distributing lead; and instead of the gaily 
decorated booths being occupied by salesmen taking deposits 
on the bonds sold, they had been used as shelters from the 
scattering bullets of armed factions. And so they still stood 
and hung, remnants of a purpose which had never been 
achieved, bedraggled, riddled and torn—roughly used by the 
rush of events. 

On the corners gathered the usual patient groups listening 
to the usual ranting speakers to whom they gave as rapt 
attention as though they had never been heard before. At 
the newspaper offices stolid crowds pressed in to read the 
bulletins which told of soldiers evacuating the trenches with¬ 
out firing a shot. 

An oasis of green in the city’s plains of pavement was 
the Summer Garden. Through its trees the sky shone glorious 
with sunset purple, russet and crimson, in irregular patches 
like the pattern of a vast puzzle. Across the quay the river 
tinged its reflections with limpid silver and, beyond, the 
domes and spires soared into the opalescent haze. The air 
came cooled from the river and it bore the confused music of 
soft laughter and gentle words to the wanderers within the 
Garden’s limits. Girls selling flowers, beggars happy for 
the sun despite their attempts at misery, soldiers strolling 
hand in hand, children playing on the green lawns, old men 
dozing on the benches, women feeding doves, and nurses 
leading the shattered and the blind. 

In a far corner an officer, using a table as a platform and 
an American flag to advertise the “American Auction,” pleaded 
for higher bidders on an autographed photo of Kerensky. 


196 WINE OF FURY 

Not far away two little Mongolian jugglers in tatters amused 
a circle of soldiers and children with their antics under their 
spinning knives. 

The pathways were lovers’ lanes. Along these the couples 
moved in endless, changing procession; rich and poor, student, 
merchant, officer and soldier—the latter with the inevitable 
cornucopia of sunflower seeds. 

Here one might have seen Anna with Alexei. Anna, pallid 
and far too young for the black she wore, but happy never¬ 
theless, as with her arm linked in his she followed where 
he led with the irregular, almost dancing step which her 
father had characterised as “fluttering.” Occasionally Alexei 
bent towards her, his full lips whispered in her ear, and she 
smiled or gazed up at him in wide-eyed wonder at the new¬ 
found beauty of his words. Throughout the intervals they 
moved as one in silent contemplation of the bright world 
about them and their happiness. 

These were midsummer nights and people were having 
their dreams. 


XVI 

The Countess swirled into David’s office one afternoon, 
searched his face with a look of genuine dismay as he greeted 
her, and, as she sat down, flung out her hands in a gesture 
of amazement. “What have you been doing? Why! I 
never saw such a change in a man.” 

“This,” said David, indicating the heap of papers on his 
desk. “It began to pile up this way after the extremist up¬ 
rising of July. You weren’t in town then, were you?” 

“No,” replied the Countess. “We moved out to the shore 
place the last of June. It seems years ago.” 

“Enough has happened,” continued David, “to make it 
years. It deluged us with business. We’ve grown beyond 
my fondest dreams. But we have to work like the very 
devil.” 


THE WINE 197 

“Yes, I can see that. Those young men out in the bank¬ 
ing room look bad enough, but you look positively ghastly. 
If you keep on at this pace, some day you’ll just go ‘wh-r-r!’ 
like an old clock-spring, and then what will have been the 
use? This settles it. You’ve got to come out to spend a 
week-end with us. No—no—no argument—I’m determined; 
You’ve simply got to come. It’ll do you a world of good; 
it’ll put enough life in you to clean up three days’ work in 
one when you return. Now let’s see, next Saturday afternoon, 
there’s a train which leaves-” 

There was no refusing her. She went firmly ahead with 
the arrangements and upon completing them, in spite of 
David’s protest, forced him to acceptance. “I’d ask Natalie 
to come,” she said, “if you thought it would do much good.” 

“No,” replied David. “It wouldn’t. She goes nowhere 
except to the hospital. Perhaps later on she would come, 
but . . . now . . . I’m quite sure . . . no, although I wish 
she would,” he added in a fervent tone which made the 
Countess look at him keenly for a second and then shift her 
glance to the gilded spire of the cathedral which soared from 
the foliage within the Fortress walls across the Neva. 

“You can’t guess what I came in to town for to-day,” she 
remarked, breaking the moment’s silence which followed and 
looking up at him with the smile of an ingenuous child. 

“To get things your husband forgot?” 

“No.” 

“Clothes?” 

“No.” 

“I give up. What for?” 

“To see a Charlie Chaplin ‘movie.’ ” David’s roar of 
laughter interrupted her, but she eventually continued: “Yes, 
I think he’s great. It would take a lot to make me miss one 
of his pictures. It’s at one of those small theatres on the 
Nevsky . . . and now that I think of it,” she hastened to 
add, as though recalling a half-forgotten point, “it’s about a 
bank. You’d appreciate it. You’d better come along with 
me this afternoon.” 



198 WINE OF FURY 

That settled it. She would not be deferred. She stuffed 
the precious papers into the drawer of the desk, crushed 
David’s hat down on his head and pulled him forth from 
his office. At the corner they engaged an isvotschik and 
rattled off to the cinema theatre. 

There was some difficulty in getting tickets owing to the 
crowd which gathered about the entrance, grinning at the 
poster pictures of “Charlo” and laughingly describing his 
doings to friends. Inside, they were at last able to find seats 
in the crowd. Once settled, they abandoned themselves to a 
good laugh at the antics in a bank of the great comedian. 

Their laughter was completely lost in the roars of the 
soldiers seated in the front seats, who demonstrated their 
delight like children. 

After the performance they stopped at the Hotel Europe 
for tea, served now in a desultory manner, without sugar, 
of course, and with heavy biscuits in place of cakes. 

During the conversation further arrangements were made 
for David’s visit to the Countess’ shore home. 

He drove with her to the railroad station and thanked 
her for having forced him to enjoy an afternoon of restful 
laughter. 

The evening preceding his departure he called at the Duk- 
harins’ and urged Natalie to accompany him. She could not. 
Every moment of spare time went to the lawyers who were 
settling the General’s estate. Moreover, he saw that the 
shadows of her father’s death still accompanied her, making 
her reluctant to go about. 

Saturday the sun blazed straight down from the cloudless 
steel-blue sky. As the train drew out into the country and 
its blessed freshness, David breathed deeply in relief. 

The scenery offered little of interest. On one side lay the 
usual monotonous rolling plains interspersed by forests of 
spruce and, near the villages, cut up into small farms. From 
these came the peasants to stand in awe as the train thundered 
by. On the other side stretched the Gulf of Finland, its 


T H E WI N E 199 

blue waters as motionless as the yellow skirting shores. 
Groups of bathers, men and women as well as children, 
sported in the water and stretched out on the hot sands in 
unsophisticated nakedness. 

Once in a while they passed the ornate summer palace of 
some noble, now closed, its doors and windows boarded up, 
the grass of the sloping lawns grown long, the gardens bare 
and unkept, the pools green with muck, and the statuary 
either falling to pieces or boxed up in winter garb. From 
these exhibitions of neglect and decay David sought relief. 

He had often been told of the Countess’ beautiful summer 
home and he resolved not to miss the long-distance view of 
it from the train. Towards noon they came to it, and David 
looked out across the placid bay. There it was, set in 
amongst the trees facing the curving beach and surrounded 
by broad lawns. It had all the adjuncts of beauty, and yet, 
as he looked at it, he quivered involuntarily. The stark, un¬ 
relieved white of the villa, the sheer green expanse of lawn, 
with the motionless blue water of the gulf before and the 
sullen green of the unbending, mechanically regular spruce- 
trees behind, formed a picture of broad, flat colour, about 
which hovered an inexplicable air of loneliness. 

A carriage awaited him at the tiny pavilion in the woods. 
The Countess sat therein. She welcomed him with real 
pleasure and something akin to relief, as though she had ex¬ 
pected that at the last minute he might allow some detail of 
his work to detain him. He noticed her agitation too, and as 
the horses jogged along the sandy roadway which wound 
through the forest as between walls of solid green she 
disclosed its cause. 

“Naritza is here,” she said. “I’d given her a standing in¬ 
vitation to come whenever she liked. She appeared on the 
scene this morning. On the first train. And whom do you 
suppose she brought with her? Oh, you can’t guess. Alexei.” 

“Wh-a-a-a-t?” exclaimed David incredulously. 

“Yes, Alexei,” confirmed his companion, “here with Naritza, 


200 WINE OF FURY 

too. She said she met him in Contant’s last night and invited 
him to meet her this morning and come down with her. The 
young fool came-” 

“He mustn’t stay,” cut in David decisively. “He must 
leave. You must ask him to go. I’m sure he’ll thank you 
for it later on. No word of his being here must get to Anna 
Dukharina. It would mean the whole performance of last 
winter over again. Anna ill. Alexei repentant. And months 
of making up. It wouldn’t do now. The Dukharins have 
had enough trouble.” 

“He knows,” replied the Countess. “He knows that he 
shouldn’t have come. He told me so himself, but he said 
he couldn’t help it. Naritza is too much for him.” 

“He must realise that he shouldn’t be here with her. It’s 
only a whim of hers. Why not have her send him away? 
Can’t you get her to do that?” 

“M-m-m-m, I don’t know,” mused his hostess; “she’s not 
the Naritza I used to know. She’s changed tremendously 
since the Revolution, and I’m sorry I can’t say it’s for the 
better. She is becoming coarse now and boisterous at times. 
It’s the company she keeps, I suppose. I’ve heard that the 
wild parties have been more frequent with her lately. It 
shows in her dress too. She used to set the high mark for 
rigid adherence to the demands of good taste. She wears 
lace now—something she never did before—and jewellery 
. . . and too much perfume.” 

“I’ve been told,” remarked David, “that in her efforts to 
keep in with the powers that be she hasn’t been as careful as 
she might have been in the selection of her friends. But 
that’s neither here nor there. The point is, she can’t very well 
refuse to send him away if you ask it. You’re the hostess, 
you know.” 

“Well, we shall see. Anyway, you’re not to think about 
it further. You’re not down here for that. You came for 
a rest. You must have it. Remember that. You’re to do 
just as you jolly well please. Do what you like, when you 
like and as much as you like.” 


THE WINE 201 

“Thanks. It probably won’t be much more than sitting 
around under the trees watching the others, anything to help 
me forget all the things I should be doing back in town.” 

As they rolled up the drive and under the porte cochere 
of the villa, shouts and hand-waving by the guests strolling 
about the lawns greeted them. 

After a refreshing drink and smoke in his room, David, 
arrayed in flannels, descended to join the party. It was 
larger than he had expected. Some twenty guests testified to 
the popularity of the Countess and her week-ends. Some of 
them he knew; with others he was as yet unacquainted. The 
Countess, likewise dressed in white, made the rounds introduc¬ 
ing him. It was evident that she considered him the guest of 
honour. 

A variety of diversion offered itself. A sailing yacht lay 
off the long narrow pier which straddled out into the gulf. 
From a hollow in the gardens near by the twang of racquet 
against ball and the flashes of white as the players darted to 
and fro told of tennis. On the lawn before the house a 
croquet court drew the attention of the older guests; and to 
those inclined to swim the still blue waters of the gulf were 
placid invitation. 

David wandered casually about the grounds. He did not 
see Alexei and he concluded that the boy had either gone or 
that he intended to remain aloof from the general gathering. 

Naritza, of course, was plainly visible. Indeed it would 
have been difficult to overlook her presence. Dressed in filmy 
grey, carrying a black and white sunshade, and wearing across 
her shoulders a wrap of fluffy feathers, she formed the centre 
of a group of men under a striped awning near the edge of 
the wood. The table beside them was a battle-field of glasses 
with numerous casualties; over their heads hovered a faint 
blue cloud of smoke, and frequent leaning together of heads 
in a circle and outbursts of laughter testified to the zestful 
exchange of gossip and stories. 

Eventually others drew David into tennis; but one set 
left him exhausted and he gave that up. Nor were his 


202 WINE OF FURY 

companions eager to continue. One group, on the promise 
of a faint breeze which perplexed the placid gulf, set out 
for a sail. The breeze lasted long enough to usher them 
half-a-mile off-shore, where it left them with sagging sails 
overhead and the gleaming, mucous water all round. Their 
efforts in paddling ashore amused considerably the others, 
who lacked the enterprise to move from their chairs. Their 
number grew as the afternoon wore on. 

When the bathing hour came, only a few joined the Countess 
in her expedition to the beach. David, after the exertion 
at tennis, was one of these. It was not as pleasant as he had 
expected. The coldness of the water surprised him; it belied 
the lure of its surface. For the Countess, however, it had no 
terrors. In her glistening black tights she treated the guests 
to an exhibition of diving from the end of the long pier and 
demonstrated that she had lost little of the skill which years 
ago, it was said, had made her famous. 

The old Count, her husband, his tweeds startling to David, 
who had never before seen him out of uniform, sat upright in 
his chair and even puffed out his chest as he noted the admira¬ 
tion of the male faction of the assemblage. 

At tea-time, when the green lawn showed white groups of 
chatting guests, the Countess took David to one side. “What 
is the matter?” she asked. “They don’t seem to enter into it, 
to do things. They only stand or sit around. And I wanted 
it so much to be like old times!” Disappointment sounded 
in her voice as she spoke the last sentence, and it sobered 
David as he replied: 

“They are having a good time. All that I’ve talked to 
are enjoying themselves thoroughly. They’re just content to 
sit around, that’s all. Tired, I suppose, like me. The heat 
has something to do with it; and there’s something in the air 
. . . a feeling ... I can’t express it . . . well ... it just 
can’t be like old times. So much has happened. So much 
can yet happen. People feel themselves to be living in a 
dream, wondering when it will end.” 


THE WINE 203 

The Countess nodded her fine head. “Yes,” she said, “I 
know, I feel it too, but-” 

“There’s nothing you need worry about,” interrupted David. 
“If it’s hilarity you want, that will come with the dinner, un¬ 
less I miss my guess. That is, provided your wine-cellar 
holds out.” 

He did not miss his guess. Midway through the dinner 
hilarity reigned. The spacious white dining-room, its long 
French windows opening wide upon the soft green terrace, 
rang with the noises of pleasure. 

The gilt frames of pictures, the china, glass and silver 
gleamed gaily in the light of the crystal chandeliers; and 
the guests about the long table released their animation in 
movement, chatter and laughter. 

The dinner proved to be a banquet. Processions of servants 
brought to the table dishes unheard of in late months. In 
these times when food costs were soaring and the socially 
elect found themselves reduced to fundamentals, such luxuries 
as the Countess provided were obtainable only at ex¬ 
treme expense. David made an opportunity to rebuke her 
for such prodigality. Her only reply was: “I don’t care. 
I wanted it to seem like old times. The expense can go 
hang.” 

It did, and David joined with the others in helping it on 
the way. One after another at the slanting row of glasses 
before each place was emptied, only to be filled again. 

Naritza sat at David’s left. The powdery white skin of her 
back and shoulders gleamed through the black net which was 
part of her dress. She paid little attention to Alexei, who 
sat across and far up the table, and who, throughout the 
entire meal, kept his eyes averted from her and from David. 

She tried to make herself agreeable and she maintained 
an incessant chatter of conversation in Russian, French, and 
broken English enunciated with a French accent. Often she 
answered her own questions. She informed him of the 
arrangements Natalie had made with her to dance a benefit 


204 WINE OF FURY 

ballet for the hospital school, and described the divertisse¬ 
ments she had planned for the occasion. David talked as 
little as possible. He wondered how this woman who ate and 
drank and smoked without cessation for hours could possibly 
be the transcendent, fairy-like creature of the moonlit ballets. 

Towards midnight the dining, as David expressed it, “be¬ 
came fast and furious.” At one place everyone stopped while 
one of the guests, a former opera singer, rendered an aria 
and an encore, to the accompaniment of a piano hauled into 
the double doorway from the music-room. Later on Naritza 
kicked her gilded chair away, seized a crimson embroidered 
cover from a side-table and with a gleaming table-knife 
between her gleaming teeth executed a Spanish dance, her 
lips and shoulders writhing, her short skirts flaring, and her 
high heels clicking and pounding on the polished floor. A 
tumult of applause followed. Shouts of “Beece! Beece!” 
mingled with the French “Encore!” the rattle of dishes and 
the pounding of silver against the glasses joined to complete 
a small pandemonium. 

The excitement reached a climax when someone brought a 
roulette wheel from an adjoining room. Dishes and glasses 
were swept aside to make a place for it, and before long the 
silent wheel began to spin, the little ball to bob about, and the 
wooden rake to scrape in the piles of bills which came and 
vanished on the table. 

The Countess smiled ruefully at David. “It’s like old 
times, all right, and yet it isn’t. The spirit’s different. It 
used to be spontaneous, natural and harmless; now it is 
deliberate, forced and vicious. I didn’t think it would come 
to this. I thought I’d hidden the wheel beyond all discovery. 
I hope my husband doesn’t forget that he is the host.” 

During the ensuing session of roulette David wandered 
through one of the open French windows out to the terrace. 
It was after midnight. The sun had set an hour or so 
previous and the moon, close on its rival’s heels, cast a faint 
haze of silver light over the massed foliage of the gardens. 


T H E WI N E 205 

He sighed with relief as the sounds of the boisterous fun 
diminished. 

His thoughts roamed no further than Natalie. He saw 
her as she would have appeared in the black gown worn by 
Naritza, her firm skin and definite features emphasised by its 
sombre shade. He resented Naritza’s wearing from sheer 
vanity—for no other reason than the accentuation of her 
whiteness—what with Natalie was the symbol of sorrow. 
So strong was his cumulative feeling for her that although he 
sorrowed too at the General’s death he resented its intrusion 
into the smooth progress of their love. He had expected it 
to lead her slightly away from him. As far as physical 
association was concerned, it had done that, but in the 
occasional moments they managed to spend together strolling 
up and down the quay or in the park he learned that, if any¬ 
thing, sorrow had deepened their feeling. A courtship in 
mourning! He almost smiled at that. So far removed from 
his preconceived ideas—ideas of romance, gaiety and the 
irresponsible abandon of youth. Their love had grown and 
continued to grow in the atmosphere offered by the exacting 
daily routine of their respective tasks performed amid the 
shifting scenes of revolution. It was deep-rooted in the sub¬ 
soil of reality. Reality. At times he wondered if it were 
all real. The nightmare-like routine which he followed in his 
work often led him far out of touch with the reality about 
him, and it was always some characteristic of Natalie—the 
directness of her gaze, the firm contact of her hand, the 
vibrancy of her voice, the unqualified reassurance of her 
presence—which brought him back. 

He wondered that events, crowned by the death of her 
father, had affected her so little. They had not swerved her 
from her course. She was the same sure, quiet worker—only 
more to him than ever! Her spirit, it seemed, needed no 
adjustment to circumstances. It perceived them but did 
not adapt itself to them. It was like the bound rudder 
which holds a ship on its course, translating into progress 


206 WINE OF FURY 

every wind of circumstance that smites her spotless sails. 

He exulted at the thought of her. With no doubt in his 
mind about the constancy of her feeling, their future seemed 
bright. For, on his part, what could possibly come between 
him and his love? 

His musings led him down into the garden along a grassy 
path. He heard voices, a woman’s faint laughter, and be¬ 
fore he realised his action, he had stepped through the foliage 
into a small clearing at the end of which he saw two figures 
seated on a white bench. 

It was too late to retreat. He had been seen. There was 
nothing to do but continue. He advanced. As he did so 
the man rose and turned to him. It was Alexei. Confusion 
showed on his handsome, mobile face. “I—I- Good¬ 

night!” he stammered, bowing to Naritza, and hurried down 
the path. 

“Playing with your victim, I see,” commented David as he 
stood before her. 

“Playing? Victim?” she queried. “What do you mean, 
Mr. Rand?” 

“Alexei Nikolaievitch. You led him out here, didn’t you?” 

Naritza lifted her head and laughed merrily. “Led!” she 
exclaimed. “That is good. You have been to a cinema. 
You have been reading novels. No, Mr. Sentimental Amer¬ 
ican, you are mistaken. Alexei Nikolaievitch is a friend of 
mine. I did not lead him. I met him one evening and asked 
him if he would like to come down here with me. He came. 
But won’t you sit down?” 

He sat beside her on the bench. 

“Why don’t you leave him alone?” he resumed. “You 
know that by trying to take him away from the one he really 
loves you are harming him.” 

“I know nothing of the kind. I am not trying to take him 
away. I never contend with another woman about a man. I 
always let her have him; it’s the best joke I can play on her. 
But I like young Alexei. Is the fact that he likes me well 
enough to come my fault?” 


T H E WIN E 207 

“I find it difficult to believe that you have brought him here 
out of pure friendship. He is a mere boy?” 

“Yes,” she assented, “a mere hoy, and yet sometimes very 
much of a man—you know that he has more than once faced 
death. I like him because, having been through so much, he 
is still a boy. Most other men would have got so—so— 
terribly experienced and tedious. But Alexei is like a big 
puppy. He makes no attempt to conceal his affections. He 
flounders in them. He talks of love, of sex, of passion as 
though he were the first person in the world to discover them. 
I like him. He is no sentimentalist, considering his emotions 
too important to let loose.” 

Emotions, love, passion. The conversation veered towards 
unfamiliar grounds for David. He reverted to the subject, 
somewhat sharply. “What can we do to make you leave him 
alone?” he questioned. He was quite prepared for anger at 
this insistence upon her ulterior motives. 

She sighed. “It is hard to give up one’s friends,” she 
said, looking at him gravely; “but money makes almost any 
situation easier to bear, and I suppose that after a while it 
would in this case.” 

David looked at her in astonishment. A dancer of in¬ 
comparable beauty, yet living a life of sordid, bargaining 
amusement; welcomed in the homes of the Court circles 
under the old regime, she preferred the doubtful pleasure of 
association with her roustabout crew; possessed with the 
reputation and genius which could with steady application 
make her known the world over and bring her wealth, she 
now descended readily to this form of extortion. “It’s black¬ 
mail,” he thought. Close upon the revulsion of feeling which 
this thought elicited, followed protest at this additional 
instance of his correlative association with money in the eyes 
of others. Always money. He could not escape it. Always 
“Mr. Rand, the Manager of the American Bank,” or “Your 
close affiliation with American finance,” or some other such 
coupling of his name with its influence. Now this Naritza 
could think of him only as a source of money, and so im- 


208 WINEOFFURY 

personal was her thought that she ventured the insult of 

blackmail. 

“No!” he ejaculated, “that is impossible. Even if it were 
for my own good I would refuse to do it.” 

A tenseness sounded in his voice. He stopped, wondering 
whether he spoke firmly or absurdly. He could not tell. So 
much depended upon the audience, and thus far he did not 
know whether Naritza spoke in earnest or in raillery. Had 
she been threatening him or had she merely been amusing 
herself? 

He waited fully a minute for her to speak. When she 
broke the silence, all vibrancy, all nuance was gone from her 
speech and she spoke in the hard, impersonal tones of a 
collector settling accounts. The seriousness in her voice was 
inescapable and he realised immediately that she had been at 
least half-joking with him. There was no joking now, 
however. 

“Am I to understand, then,” she stated, “that you will 
refuse to pay your debt to me if I ask it?” 

Amazement drew him closer to her. She regarded him 
fixedly. 

“Debt to you?” he exclaimed. “I owe you nothing.” 

“Mr. Rand,” she replied, forcing the words through her 
strong teeth in short, sharp succession, “it is time you realised 
that it was I who obtained for you the necessary signature 
to your charter.” 

He laughed mirthlessly. He could not have done worse. 
Her claim bordered on the fantastic. “Impossible!” he 
replied. “My charter was signed by the Tsar. No other 
signature made it valid.” And then, with sarcasm: “As far 
as I am aware, you were not in a position to ask him to 
place his name upon it.” 

“I see,” she interrupted, “that you have but little concep¬ 
tion of the circumstances with which you were involved. The 
Tsar signed what was placed before him with the proper 
recommendation. By yielding somewhat to the advances at 
a dinner-party in a private room at Donon’s of the secretary 


T H E WIN E 209 

who arranged these recommendations, I brought your charter 
to his attention months before its time and in months you 
would probably not have obtained it.” 

The words echoed in his ears: “I see that you have but 
little conception of the circumstances with which you were 
involved.” He had heard that before. Where? Of course. 
Radkin had said it, or something similar to it, that night when 
he had exposed him to the police. Strange that they should be 
spoken again by another person. “If what you say is true,” 
he resumed, “you must remember that I did not ask it of you. 
You undertook it of your own accord. I can only give you 
my sincere thanks for your-” 

“They are not enough,” she interposed shortly. “Do you 
consider that your thanks can repay me for suffering the 
attentions of that lummox of a secretary? That your thanks 
can make up for the insult of that young Anna? Recall what 
happened to her. Go tell her that your thanks have made it 
all right. Tell her that!” She forced herself to laugh in 
hard, staccato tones. 

David saw that she restrained her anger with difficulty. 
His reaction to it followed the course of all his reactions to 
excitement, haste and disorder. He became calm and in 
complete control of his senses. He attempted to continue 
from where she had interrupted him. “And if it is not 
true-•” 

“If you think it not true, if you think I lie,” she almost 
shouted at him, “ask someone who knows. Ask your watch¬ 
ful friend, the Countess, she--” 

“We will ask no one,” he stated firmly, cutting her short at 
what he feared might be the beginning of an hysterical out¬ 
break. “The matter is settled. As far as I am concerned, 
there shall be no further mention of it.” 

A moment of silence followed. He heard the uneasy move¬ 
ment of her foot on the gravel walk. 

“You are certain that it is settled?” she questioned evenly. 
“You are sure that you will never regret it?” 

“Absolutely.” 



210 WINE OF FURY 

“Very well then,” she said, rising to her feet; “it is good 
that we understand each other. Now good-night.” 

Her final words were pleasant, and David marvelled that 
the scarlet passion he had seen leaping behind the white 
mask of her face could so quickly be brought under control. 
“Good-night,” he whispered, bowing as she floated off like a 
moving spirit through the pale light. 

He stood in silence. Another enemy. There could be no 
doubt that Naritza now was that. And yet what else could 
he have done? He had felt the same way about Radkin. 
Circumstances seemed to manoeuvre these people into cross¬ 
purposes with him. Strange that he should find himself in 
conflict with the influences he most wanted to avoid. How 
unreal it seemed—this tangle of desires—against the night’s 
sheer beauty! What would come of it? What should he 
do? He could not say. He found it easier to think while in 
motion and he walked slowly toward the villa which rose 
chastely from the dark gardens. 

It was with reluctance that he entered again the glittering 
dining-room with its gay racket of clashing china and silver, 
of laughter and of boisterous music. 


XVII 

When the Princess Dukharina heard through David that 
Alexei had been at the Countess’ week-end party with Naritza 
she knew that at last the means of separating the boy and 
Anna had been afforded her. It did not occur to her that 
the surest method would have been to allow her stepdaughter 
to hear of it casually and make the break of her own accord; 
she could not dissociate herself from her surrounding cir¬ 
cumstances, and in a situation like this she could not resist 
the temptation to play the role of the benevolent stepmother 
intervening to acquaint her loved one with the evil which 
she ought to know. She therefore awaited an auspicious 
moment. 


THE WINE 211 

It seemed to have arrived one afternoon when she found 
Anna alone in the sewing-room humming to herself as she 
worked with embroidery needle and thread on a circle of white 
linen. 

“What is it, Aneta?” she asked, bending over her step¬ 
daughter’s shoulder. 

The instinctive movement to conceal the work repressed 
by the realisation that it was too late, Anna leaned back 
in her chair, smoothed the linen with her hand and regarded 
it fondly, her head bent to one side in the bird-like attitude 
which her father had loved. “It’s a handkerchief,” she 
replied. 

“And the ‘A’ in the corner?” 

“That’s going to be ‘Alosha,’ ” said Anna, looking her 
questioner squarely in the face. 

“You are sure you want to give it to him?” 

“Yes, yes. Why not?” 

“He spent the last week-end at the Countess Borovskaya’s 
with Naritza.” 

Anna’s piquant face turned as white as her white dress. 
Her drawn lips quivered with the rush of the turbulent emo¬ 
tions which beat at them for expression. Her small fists 
gripped the wooden hoops which encircled the blue silken 
initial as she bent her head in an effort to retain her self- 
control. 

Instinct told the Princess that here in the conversation she 
ought to leave the suffering girl alone. But she did not. 

“It is true,” replied the Princess. “Three different people 
have told me. The last was Mr. Rand. You know that he 
is not usually mistaken and that he always speaks the truth.” 

Anna rose to her feet. The wave of emotion which had 
been thrown back by the wall of her reserve surged forward 
again and this time broke over the barrier in unrestrained and 
irrelevant confusion. “Yes, he always tells the truth!” she 
cried. “Always because he thinks of himself and his work 
first. Why doesn’t he think of someone else once in a while 
and tell a lie. Sometimes a lie is better than the truth. And 


212 WINE OF FURY 

why did you have to tell me this? Why couldn’t you have 
let me find it out for myself? Why do you stand there look¬ 
ing at me? You are pleased. You have been waiting a 
long time for this.” 

“My child, my child,” interrupted the Princess, approach¬ 
ing to take Anna in her arms. 

“I am not your child!” exclaimed the girl. “If I were, 
you would understand. You would not have done this. You 
do not know what you have done. You cannot understand be¬ 
cause you have never been in love. You never even loved 
father. You married him because you wanted to be a 
princess. No, you do not understand. There is no one here 
who understands. Papa would understand. Oh, Alosha, 
why did you do it?” 

Her cries gave way to tears and sobs, and smothering them 
in her upraised sleeve and still clutching the circle of white 
linen with the blue “A,” the tormented girl escaped the out¬ 
stretched arms of her stepmother and ran from the room. 

Perplexed, the Princess remained motionless for a moment. 
Then with a shrug of annoyance she too left the room, shak¬ 
ing her head and inwardly reflecting: “That she could talk 
like that! What are these modern children coming to? Now 
when I was a child we were taught to be respectful to our 
elders and to restrain ourselves.” 


XVIII 

One evening David turned a corner and found himself face 
to face with Radkin. 

Surprise and embarrassment held him speechless. The neat 
phrases he had prepared for the eventuality vanished in the 
confused silence. He stared at the triangular, bearded, black 
and white face before him. It was the first time since the 
Revolution that he had seen the man close to. 

The face had changed. Some of its force had gone. The 
lights and shadows did not seem quite so marked. It was 


THE WINE 213 

as though the absolute assurance of the idealist contemplating 
his ideal had, with its attainment and the discovery that it was 
not so bright as it had appeared, given way to wonder, un¬ 
certainty and hope. David, searching for the flush of victory, 
the bravado of vindication, realised again that he had under¬ 
estimated the man. 

Words still evaded him. Radkin, with the resources of 
three languages at his disposal, ventured none. Nor did he 
extend his hand. David felt the gap between them. He had 
always felt that there was a gap which, given the proper 
circumstances, might separate them. Now it was as though 
Radkin had leapt across and was contemplating him from 
the other side—from another world. 

David finally managed to speak: “How are you?” he 
asked. 

“Well, thank you,” replied Radkin. “And you?” 

“As well as might be expected under the circumstances.” 

“They are trying. May I walk with you and ask about 
my former friends?” 

They moved on down the street together. 

“General Dukharin is dead,” answered David. 

“Yes, I was told that. I am sorry. He will be missed 
by many.” 

“The others are well and getting along as best they can.” 

“And your work?” queried Radkin. 

“I have accomplished more than I ever dreamed possible,” 
replied David. Then, changing the subject quickly: “And 
you?” 

“Frantically, desperately busy since the Revolution.” 

“What happened after that night at the Dukharins’?” 

“I was questioned for hours by the Secret Police. I was 
sentenced to be shot and was placed in a dungeon in the 
Fortress of Peter and Paul. My friends released me on the 
second day of the Revolution.” 

“Thank God for that,” breathed David. 

“Yes.” 

A pause ensued. They walked along side by side, each 


214 WINE OF FURY 

waiting for the other to speak. David felt again the depth of 

the abyss between them. 

“I saw you once before,” he remarked. “I stopped and 
listened to you speak.” 

“Yes?” 

“I was amazed,” continued David as they turned down the 
Sadovia towards the Summer Garden and the river, “to learn 
that you were supporting the Bolsheviks.” 

“Yes, there is nothing else to do.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“They are going to win, and those of us who wish to help 
Russia must join them and make our influence felt.” 

“They have been defeated once.” 

“That was an unorganised attempt. We did not have the 
support of the soldiers. It all depends upon them. If they 
wish to fight on and support the Provisional Government, we 
can do little. If they decline to fight on, we shall succeed. 
We are conducting a campaign for this support in the army. 
We shall know the result within the next few weeks. I am 
sure that the soldiers will be for us. Then we shall succeed.” 

“Then what?” 

“Peace.” 

“You mean that!” exclaimed David. “You will go so far 
as to make a dishonourable peace with Germany?” 

“There cannot be a dishonourable peace. It is the destruc¬ 
tion, the suffering, the murder of war which is dishonourable. 
Except in the case of a nation fighting a war of defence 
against the wanton attack of another, all war is dishonourable. 
We want no more of it. The Germans want peace with us. 
They have said so. It would be a crime against civilisation to 
refuse it.” 

“Ah, but you cannot permanently settle the question as 
easily as that. This is a new kind of war. It has got to be 
a war between two political philosophies—the autocratic and 
the democratic. Shall you rule or be ruled? It is a question 
which concerns all human life and it must be decided. If 
not now, then some other time. By making peace now you 


THE WINE 215 

only postpone the struggle. That ought to be clear to you.” 

“It is. It has been for a long time. But the struggle you 
speak of has been decided. It was decided last March by 
the Russian Revolution. Autocracy then received its death¬ 
blow. The greatest and most powerful autocratic system 
in the world collapsed. Compared to it the German system 
is insignificant. It is not worth squabbling over. The ques¬ 
tion is decided and we shall go on to other things.” 

“Other things?” queried David. 

“Yes,” continued Radkin in his old-time fervour. “We 
want to make a complete social revolution out of these recent 
political events. We want to attempt to work out a better 
solution than has heretofore been reached of the age-old 
problem of man’s relation to his fellows. We shall try to 
distribute the obligation of labour, the duties of citizenship 
and the opportunities for pleasure more evenly than they 
have ever been before in any country. This we consider the 
outstanding problem of the age—to establish man’s social 
freedom. The religious wars of the sixteenth century deter¬ 
mined hi3 religious freedom. The French and American 
Revolutions fixed his political freedom. It remains for the 
Russian Revolution to establish his social freedom. 

“You think you are free in the United States. Your Con¬ 
stitution says all men are created free and equal. Politically 
they are, but economically, socially, they are not. Man’s 
early environment still has too much influence in the course of 
his entire life. The accident of birth is too important. Born 
into a wealthy or a well-to-do family, his future comfort is 
practically assured. Born into poverty and a labouring 
family, the odds are that he will not get far beyond them. I 
know that you Americans like to cite instances of the poor 
boy rising to positions of wealth and power. But even if 
that is the aim of life, and to the Russian mind it is not, such 
cases are proportionately few. The chances are that the 
poor boy, like the rich boy, will grow up to be but one im¬ 
personal cog in the vast and intricate industrial machine of 
modern American and English life; a machine developed to 


216 WINE OF FURY 

such huge proportions that, like the monster of Frankenstein, 
it has come to dominate the lives of its creators, demanding 
from eight to ten hours of their day six days of the week and 
keeping nearly one half their number at work on the non- 
essential accessories of modern existence; a machine whose 
continuous operation is so essential to the state that it must 
venture into other states to create new and artificial needs 
for its products and if necessary force by war its right to do 
so. 

“The Russian is not partial to this. It is foreign to his 
nature. He sees little in the rush to pile up property, posi¬ 
tion and power which seems to be the expressed aim of Amer¬ 
ican life to-day, because in the haste and effort he sees eventual 
neglect of the search for truth and beauty which his soul 
would follow. Being more artist than artisan, he attaches 
more importance to this search than men of other races. In 
his inarticulate fashion he demands it. He will not tolerate 
the harsh industrial terms foreigners would impose upon him. 
He revolts against them. It is this which had much to do with 
the Revolution here. Some have seen in the Russian Revolu¬ 
tion the shaking off of European conceptions of life which 
have, during the past three centuries, been forced upon Russia; 
the discarding, as it were, of the chrysalis of European in¬ 
dustrialism. Some such instinct was in the movement and 
some such instinct will influence future events. Respect for 
it shaped our policy. We are determined to work out a 
system which will provide this different man, the Russian, 
with the time and opportunity for this search for truth which 
he desires. It is our duty. To miss the opportunity would 
be criminal. To resist the demand for it which is in the 
surging tide of liberal feeling emanating from Russia to the 
shores of the world would make of us the King Canutes of 
modernity.” 

For a moment after Radkin stopped speaking there reigned 
the silence which follows the sudden shutting off of a fall of 
water. Gradually the environment forced itself back upon 


T H E WI N E 217 

David’s consciousness. They were walking alongside a canal. 
As he talked, Radkin had been emphasising his points with 
slaps of his open palm on the top of the waist-high red 
granite wall which bordered the water. Unconsciously he 
rubbed the dust from his hand on his trousers, and in the 
silence it was the dust which David noticed first. The ac¬ 
cumulated dust of a rainless summer lay over everything— 
the streets, the walks, even the turgid surface of the canal. 
The leaves were powdered grey and brown with it, and the 
atmosphere itself, where the rays from the low sun shot 
through the foliage, seemed a restless haze of golden dust. 
The vague association of the idea sent his thoughts back to 
the gold piled in the secret corner of his office, and he closed 
his eyes and shook his head imperceptibly as though to dismiss 
the recollection. 

He resumed the chain of their discussion where Radkin 
had dropped it. “By just what means do you hope to 
accomplish all this?” he asked with something of demand in 
his voice. 

He thought at first that his companion had not heard. 
Radkin walked at a diminished pace, and with the question 
he had begun again to touch the wall at each step as though 
marking off his thoughts. 

Suddenly he spoke again: “There you have me. I can¬ 
not answer definitely. Our methods depend upon circum¬ 
stances—the measure of support people give us, the reac¬ 
tion to our ideas. I don’t think that we are unique in not 
having a programme planned. No great discoverer knows 
exactly what he is going to find. It may take a long time. 
The French Revolution lasted seven years. Ours will probably 
last longer than that. We may even fail at first. But never 
finally, permanently. We shall succeed.” 

David looked into the white face moving along beside 
him for an expression which might soften the hard voice, but 
its contour did not change. They were approaching the 
Summer Garden and through the still trees David discerned 


218 WINE OF FURY 

the twisting lines of the couples as they trod the cool green 
pathways. At a corner by the bridge the flimsy stand of a 
hawker raised a bit of tattered striped awning over its shelf 
of sandy chocolates, its dried fruits and its broad tray of sun¬ 
flower seeds. Soldiers came to it empty-handed and left 
with the cornucopias clutched before them and their free 
hands moving with mechanical regularity between the seeds 
and their thick lips. From the steps opposite a fiery orator 
was addressing a languid crowd. He spoke with the enthu¬ 
siasm and verbiage of a fanatic, unable to keep up with the 
flight of his ideas and unable to control the direction or 
distance of that flight. David caught a few stray phrases 
from the fireworks of the man’s speech: 

“. . . take the land from the rich and divide it among 
you . . . reduce the hours of work, my comrades of the 
factories, to four and increase your wages three times . . . 
publish the secret treaties and expose the shame of the English 
and French to the world ... we shall build a guillotine 
. . . you shall see the rich, the powerful, the nobility who 
have held you down all these years . . . you shall see them 
die. . . .” 

They progressed too far to hear more. “I suppose he is 
one of your men,” remarked David. 

Radkin nodded. 

“Why do you have to make such extreme statements? Why 
do you have such fanatics with you? They are dangerous.” 

“We need the support of everyone we can get—thinker, 
dreamer, soldier, workman and radical. It is not strange that 
there are some like him in the ranks of our supporters. They 
are not over-dangerous. Remember, we lead them.” 

“Yes,” said David, “you lead them, but—and this is vital 
♦—can you stop them?” 

Radkin looked up at him and replied with calm assurance: 
“I think so.” 

“You think!” exclaimed David, unable to conceal his 
exasperation. “That characterises all of you, your entire 


THE WINE 219 

movement. You think this is so; you think that will be so. 
Is there anything about it that you know? The whole busi¬ 
ness is impractical. You are theorists. I may be over- 
practical, but I find it difficult to understand how you can 
continue on as you are with no more tangible plan than that 
which you will depend upon your imagination to evoke.” 

“Practical. Imagination,” echoed Radkin. “I suppose we 
are not practical. But I hope we have imagination. There 
come times, you know, when the imagination of one or a few 
determines what the practical shall do for centuries.” 

Again they walked on in silence. “You will have opposi¬ 
tion,” ventured David. 

Radkin gave no sign that he had heard. They came to the 
great bridge across the river. The waters reflected the sunset 
*—blotches and streaks of purple, orange and crimson spilled 
across the heavens in furious confusion. 

They stopped in contemplation. David repeated his re¬ 
mark: “You will have opposition.” 

Radkin nodded slowly as he whispered his reply: “Yes, 
there will be opposition. That is the pity of it, the tragedy of 
it.” He paused and gazed for moments at the sunset, his 
mobile black brows twisting upwards towards each other as 
though the lurid colours were from scenes too painful and 
terrible to watch. “When the Russian giant awoke and shook 
off his bonds,” he continued softly, “his peaceful wishes were 
ignored and extended war was urged upon him. Soon, when 
he turns from this to the reorganisation of his own affairs, he 
will be provoked with intrigue and interference to drink the 
wine of fury and be mad. The world will tremble with his 
agony.” 

The solemn tones of the man’s voice ceased. He raised 
his hands to his eyes as if to shut out something he did not 
wish to see. Suddenly he looked at David. “It is late,” he 
said. “I must go. We shall meet again.” And he was off 
across the bridge, his spare, black-coated figure outlined 
sharply against the dying sun’s welter of colour. 


220 


WINE OF FURY 


XIX 

Meanwhile irrational forces operate. 

One by one the members of the Provisional Government fall 
and are replaced, only to have the new-comers ousted in turn. 
A parade of labourers in the streets, speakers, a demonstration 
in the square before the Winter Palace, and a minister is over¬ 
thrown or the policy of the Government is changed. Reason¬ 
able government seems unable to stand against the blows of 
calumny and agitation to which the Bolsheviks subject it. 

Relief measures avail little. Conferences in Petrograd, 
conferences in Moscow. Assemblies here and assemblies 
there. Oracular unity, but active dissension. A chaos of 
vocality. 

Riga, the gate to Petrograd, falls before the German forces. 
A quick concentration of troops, a preponderance of artillery, 
and the Russians, their collective morale broken, retire, allow¬ 
ing a bridge to be constructed across the river. Before the ad¬ 
vancing enemy the masses of refugees blacken the roads; 
masses heading for Petrograd as a haven of refuge. What a 
refuge! No bread, no milk, no butter, no eggs, even for its 
own inhabitants. 

The enemy advances toward Petrograd and halts. 

Begins an exodus from that city. On all sides the cries: 
“The Germans will be here in two weeks”; “A week”; “Three 
days.” At the stations the crowds gather hours before train¬ 
time and pandemonium breaks out when the gates slide open. 
There is a mad scramble for places on the train, any place, 
first class, second class, or third, anywhere, no matter what the 
ticket may read. On they pile, clambering over the seats, 
breaking windows and crawling in through the splintered 
glass, and even up to the roofs of the cars. 

Affairs curdle and clot into opposing factions. The 
Kerensky-Korniloff struggle breaks upon the dazed city. The 
streets buzz with excitement. Triple guards are posted. Hun¬ 
dreds of arrests are made. Excited crowds are everywhere. 


THE WINE 221 

In order to defend the Government, should the advancing Kor- 
niloff reach the city, the mob is given what it has long wanted 
—arms. The situation is tinged with red. 

Suspense intensifies with further rumour of enemy activity. 
From Riga as a base, Petrograd is to be raided by zeppelins. 
Further excitement. Anti-aircraft guns are stationed at vari¬ 
ous centres. Bomb-shelters are improvised and ambulance 
depots are established. At night the sky is criss-crossed with 
the restless movement of searchlights. 

So, with the enemy waiting outside and with civil war 
stalking within, life in the city goes on. What else can it do? 

In the midst of it David Rand found himself too much in¬ 
volved to be able to interpret the separate events. It was 
plain to him, however, that the old struggle for power between 
the Conservatives and the Radicals continued. Once, after 
the unsuccessful attempt in the early summer, he had thought 
it settled. But it had intensified. Still, he felt that there 
could be little doubt of the outcome. The Radicals had al¬ 
ready been beaten once. The process would be repeated. It 
was inconceivable that it should be otherwise. 

What the ultimate effect upon his work would be he could 
not decide. Sometimes he sensed danger ahead and thought 
that he should refuse to admit new business to his bank, that 
he should consolidate what he had, and even that he should 
leave the country while it was possible. Always, however, he 
protested against such thoughts. Having made a phenomenal 
success against tremendous hazards, he wanted to see it 
through at all costs. 

He saw it as possible, however, that the issue might be 
forced by the sheer pressure of events upon his men and him¬ 
self. There might come a time when it would be physically 
impossible to continue. The reaction of the public to current 
happenings was the same as in the past. It flocked to the 
American bank with money and securities. He had long ago 
given up hope of keeping up with the inflow of new business. 
His men worked until late at night—ten, eleven, and some¬ 
times twelve o’clock. They were nervous and irritable. The 


222 WINE OF FURY 

shortage of food and its under-nourishment left them thin and 
pale. The lack of time for exercise and amusement robbed 
them of their enthusiasm and spontaneity. Yet he drove them 
on. Himself as well. The increasing drum-fire of petty de¬ 
tails and the pressure of apprehension at the expanding 
chances of error began to undermine his reserve. He no 
longer had a zest for the work. It had become routine in 
spite of its amazing variety. It allowed him no time for the 
things he had grown to like—the opera, the ballet, the society 
of interesting and hospitable people, and Natalie. Some¬ 
times he found himself wondering whether the end were worth 
the means of achievement. Not that he was ever in doubt for 
long, but it was a new experience to learn that one soundly 
schooled in finance—even though it was himself—should 
doubt at all. There was a time when he would have consid¬ 
ered it to be impossible. He was beginning to think that 
nothing was impossible. The rush of events was changing his 
conception of the fundamentals. Encompassed by unrest, 
hunger and violence, the foundations of his life seemed less 
firm. At times they had the uncertainty of quicksand. 

The information about her dancing for the benefit of Nat¬ 
alie’s hospital dropped so casually by Naritza at the Countess’ 
week-end party worried him. He disliked to think of Naritza 
and Natalie together in any circumstances, even those of char¬ 
ity. He feared the dancer. The open boldness with which 
she pursued her ends made him resolve to separate her as 
definitely as possible from his affairs. 

He sat with Natalie in the broad library of the Dukharin 
home. It had been a dry, hot day, one of summer’s last 
despairing efforts. For the first time since the death of her 
father Natalie wore no mourning. She sat opposite him, 
beside one of the low windows fretted with shutters in an 
effort to bar the light of the evening sun which blazed outside. 
The crisp material of the cream-coloured dress she wore added 
to the impression of coolness which her usual calm demeanour 
imparted. He noted how the simplicity of her appearance 
seemed to dominate the luxury of the room. The dim light 


T H E WI N E 223 

softened the outline of her dark hair and her definitely 
moulded features with elusive shadows. She seemed more 
than ever alluring. 

“You say you are tired,” he remarked, “but you look 
happy.” 

“I am . . . both,” she answered. “The sessions with the 
lawyers about father’s estate are tedious. And then the hos¬ 
pital. We’ve been rushed lately. More soldiers want to 
come in for the courses. There isn’t enough room for those 
we have already; some of the most helpful people have left 
Petrograd, and it’s about impossible now to get supplies.” 

“It must be discouraging.” 

“Until this afternoon I thought there was to be no more 
money. It was not coming in fast enough to keep us going. 
It looked as though we should have to stop for lack of it. 
It’s disheartening, isn’t it, to consider how many great and 
beautiful things depend upon money. It’s all right now, 
though. You’ve heard about the benefit performance Na- 
ritza is giving for us? Well, I learned this afternoon that 
the house is sold out. Even standing room.” 

David leaned towards her. “Natalie,” he said, “don’t you 
attach too much importance to the work of that hospital 
school?” 

She stared at him for a moment. “You do not under¬ 
stand,” she said gently. “I don’t do the work because I think 
it important. I do it because I feel it to be the best thing I 
can do.” 

“Yes?” he queried. 

Silence followed as she looked away through the fretted 
windows. 

“I wonder if you get my meaning,” she continued musingly. 
“You remember how Radkin used to plead the cause of the 
peasant? Well, he was right. He was right. We, my father 
and his father before him were wrong. Perhaps not directly, 
but as part of an evil system, they were wrong. Well, from 
one point of view this work helps to make it good, to pay. 
It’s not much, I know, but ... I can’t do any more.” 


224 WINE OF FURY 

“But haven’t you done enough?” he insisted. “Can’t you 
take a rest? Isn’t there someone else who can take it over?” 

“No,” she replied, shaking her head slowly, “not now; 
there’s no one else. There’s no egotism in saying that. All 
the others with experience and understanding of it as a whole 
have left the city and, in most cases, the country. I am the 
only one of the original staff left.” 

“You like it . . . the work, I mean?” 

“Not in the sense that it’s easy or pleasant. It isn’t. It’s 
sheer exhausting work helping and caring for people when 
they’ve lost their nerve, are suspicious of you, aren’t satisfied 
with your help, and often abuse it. But I couldn’t even con¬ 
sider anything else. I feel it’s the best I can possibly do.” 

“Are the results worth so much effort?” 

“To see one blind soldier weave a basket would convince 
you of that.” 

“And how much money is needed?” 

“As much as we can get. At least the twenty-five thousand 
roubles we shall have from the benefit ballet. If we need 
more, Naritza has already promised to dance again.” 

“Is there no other way to raise the money, Natalie?” 

“I couldn’t find any other. I thought it over for a long 
time.” 

“Isn’t there any other dancer or singer who could make the 
benefit a success?” 

“None so popular as Naritza. There are some who might 
perhaps nearly fill the house, but Naritza will jam it. Why 
do you ask?” 

“I don’t like her.” 

“I don’t particularly. But she’s not giving the benefit be¬ 
cause we like or dislike her. It’s because she’s a consum¬ 
mate dancer and can draw the money.” 

“Her character is . . . not of the best.” 

“Perhaps. Perhaps, too, it isn’t all her fault.” 

“Can you take the money it brings you?” 

“Yes. Why not? It is paid in willingly for the privilege 
of seeing a great artist create beauty. It goes to help the 


T H E W I N E 225 

lame and the blind. Every one connected with it is bettered 
—Naritza, the public, and the soldiers in the hospital.” 

“Nevertheless, would you cancel the benefit?” 

“If you could show me another means of raising the 
money. Would your bank give it?” 

“No, as much as I might wish to. The rules of the in¬ 
stitution forbid donations to charity of any kind. Otherwise 
it would be deluged with requests. You can understand 
that?” 

“Yes. But, David, what are you driving at? What do you 
mean?” 

“Just this,” he burst forth decisively. “I dislike the 
woman, I distrust her. I think the less that I and those I care 
for have to do with her the better. I dislike to think of you 
in the same thought with her, no matter how good the circum¬ 
stances. Natalie, would you call it all off if I asked? Would 
you?” 

Surprise played across her features. She looked at him 
steadily as he leaned closer to her. “If I should ask it,” she 
questioned, “would you close your bank?” 

He answered impatiently: “That’s got nothing to do with it. 
You wouldn’t ask such a thing.” 

“You have answered your own question, David,” she said 
gently. 


XX 

Fully a month passed before Foma recovered completely 
from the shock sustained in the battle. During that period 
he went through the daily routine in the new positions with 
a curious feeling of detachment—as though he had experi¬ 
enced enough to promote him from his environment. 

For weeks peace and quiet enveloped this environment. 
The enemy made no attempt at counter-attacks, although 
farther up the line such attacks had been successful, even to 
the degree of recapturing all that had been lost to the Rus- 


226 WINE OF FURY 

sians. Both forces settled down in their new positions and 
went about their own affairs. 

For a period of a month the hazy summer stillness extended 
from day to day unbroken by the rude sound of a rifle. 
Fraternisation began between the opposing forces and devel¬ 
oped to such an extent that in the long evenings soldiers from 
both sides gathered in groups in the fields between the trenches 
or under the trees to the left of the Russian line to barter soap 
for cigarettes and to play their crude games. 

Eventually, what little vigilance the Russians did maintain 
bore fruit. Rumours came of activity behind the enemy lines. 
A soldier who went to fraternise at an unusual hour returned 
to report the bringing up to the enemy line of provisions and 
ammunition in unprecedented quantities, and these and num¬ 
erous other signs pointed to early action. It became clear 
that under cover of their organised fraternisation the enemy 
were to sweep the Russians off their feet in a surprise attack. 

Orders to break this up by a Russian attack met with a 
result which chagrined the officers of the Russian staff. Com¬ 
pany committees of soldiers called meetings all down the 
lines to discuss the order for renewed battle. The officers 
were helpless. The organisation of the committees through¬ 
out the army was complete, due to the efforts of the Soviet 
agitators under direction from Petrograd, and when the meet¬ 
ings opened the majority of the officers remained fuming at 
their posts, while the rest hovered about the outer edge of the 
debating groups in curious, silent disgust at this new shame 
visited upon the Russian army. 

Foma was at first an interested listener. He took his place 
leaning against a tree not far from the stump which served as 
a speakers’ platform and listened to the speeches with the 
detached appreciation of the artist which has no spur to 
action in it. The heavy grace of his body showed in the 
long, full muscles under the thin sleeves of his summer tunic, 
at the waist where the wide belt strained to hold them, and 
at the thighs of his crossed legs. His face, lifted towards the 


T H E WI N E 227 

speaker with child-like curiosity, had its flat, open naivete 
tempered a bit by the sophisticated curl of hair which ex¬ 
tended over his left eye from the rim of his tilted cap. In his 
hand he clenched the crumpled and rolled envelope of a let¬ 
ter received in the afternoon. 

Gradually, as the speakers mounted the natural rostrum, 
had their say, and stepped down to listen to the others, the 
crowd of listeners grew, and Foma before long found him¬ 
self in the centre of it. 

“Comrades,” said one speaker, standing erect on the stump, 
arms outstretched in exhortation, “many of us have been fight¬ 
ing now for three years. We are tired of fighting. We have 
a right to peace if we want it. And we do want it. Why 
then should we keep on fighting? Merely because the officers 
tell us that the enemy has been deceiving us all this time and 
is preparing to attack us and that we must attack them first? 
Comrades, they have always told us that. They are not to 
blame of course, because other and higher officers have told 
them, but now we know that it is not so. We have met the 
enemy soldiers. We have given them soap, and they have 
given us cigarettes. And they are not our enemies. They 
are our friends. They have said so. They also do not wish 
to fight any more. Why should we fight them then? We are 
brothers, so let us have peace. Let us go to them and ar¬ 
range for peace.” 

A short, wiry soldier jumped up on the stump. He re¬ 
ferred to the preceding speaker sarcastically. “Comrades,” 
he said, with a smile of mock pity, “our friend is a nice, 
amiable fellow. He thinks the enemy soldiers who have been 
killing our comrades for three years to be nice fellows. Have 
they themselves not admitted they were nice? No, I am thank¬ 
ful that we are not all as simple as he. Not all of us should 
be with him in the asylum, because we do not believe all that 
we are told. We believe what we see with our own eyes. 
For instance, comrades—these. 

“These, comrades,” he continued, “were found in the enemy 


228 WINEOFFURY 

lines. They are printed instructions to the enemy soldier, 
telling him how to go about fraternising with us, just how best 
to deceive us. Listen, I shall read one to you.” 

He flourished a printed circular. “It is quite long, my 
friends, so I shall not read all of it,” he continued; “but lis¬ 
ten: ‘Points to Impress Upon the Russians During Fratern¬ 
isation. 1. We are fighting a defensive war against Russia, 
France, England and Italy. 2. That England and France be¬ 
gan the war and dragged Russia into it. 3. That we wish 
peace, and were it not for England there would be peace.’ 

“There are other points, comrades, but is more needed? 
No, it is enough. It shows you just how sincere the enemy is 
with his fraternisation. The question is, should we allow him 
to continue thinking that he has deceived us? No, I can see 
you shake your heads in answer. No, we should show the 
enemy that he is not so clever and that we are not so stupid. 
We should carry out the attack as the orders say, defeat the 
enemy, and show him that he cannot deceive the Russian sol¬ 
dier.” 

Silence followed the disappearance of this speaker into the 
crowd—silence during which the listeners turned to each 
other, each seeking the other’s reaction to the startling dis¬ 
closures just made. The head of the regimental soviet 
climbed up on the stump. “Are there any more speeches be¬ 
fore we vote on this question?” he asked. “Does anyone else 
wish to speak?” 

“I do. Yes,” came a voice from down front as another 
speaker leaped up on the stump. 

Foma recognised him as an active worker among the sol¬ 
diers for the organisation of the company and regimental so¬ 
viets. He was an experienced speaker and the incisive sen¬ 
tences rolled easily from his tongue. “Comrades,” he began, 
“the arguments for carrying on the fight as mentioned by the 
previous speakers are the usual ones. We have all heard 
them before. They have not convinced us. None of them or 
all of them together are strong enough to stand against the 
greatest argument for making peace, which is, that out of the 


T H E WI N E 229 

war has come the Revolution, our liberty. What else is there 
for us to fight for? As far as we are concerned, the war is 
over. There is nothing more that we want. All right then, 
peace and quickly. It is said by some that we owe it to Eng¬ 
land and France to continue the fight with them. Comrades, 
we owe England and France nothing. On the contrary, they 
owe us a great deal that they have never paid. They have 
forgotten already the sacrifices of Russia in the first few 
months of war—the slaughter of her best youth in the ad¬ 
vances into North Prussia, their advancing without guns, with¬ 
out ammunition, with only sticks, tearing at the wire with 
naked hands; and hurried to certain slaughter in the Masurian 
swamps—slaughter so easy and so brutal that even enemy 
officers fainted at having to carry out the orders for it—for¬ 
gotten is all this which held the German from swarming over 
France and Belgium. 

“The English could pay a little by helping us with their 
fleet. They call themselves the Mistress of the Seas. But are 
they? There are German ships in the Gulf of Riga now. 
Why do not the British attack them? Where are the English 
submarines which everyone knows to be there, too? You see 
the English make no effort to pay their debt to us. Why then 
should we continue to make sacrifices for them? 

“The Revolution is supposed to have made you free. It 
is supposed to have gained for you the land, which, it is 
promised, will be divided among you. But how can you 
get your share of the land if you remain here fighting? 
Others who are where the land is will get it. Already 
foreigners are coming in and taking over some of the land. 
And they are bringing in their machines, particularly the 
Americans, to do the work and cheat you out of your jobs. 
When you return home you will not even have work. The 
foreigners and their machines will be doing it and you will 
be turned out. So, comrades, why remain here fighting and 
lose your land and your jobs? Why not make peace now, 
and after a while go home to take what is yours? Let us not 
attack on the day after to-morrow, then, but let us meet our 


230 WINE OF FURY 

brothers on the enemy side and make peace with them.” 

There were mild manifestations of approval as this speaker 
finished, but this variation from the usual apathetic silence 
was perhaps due more to his musical voice and fine gestures 
than to the text of his oration. 

Foma heard but few of his closing words. Ennui had 
overtaken him. He had heard the arguments pro and con 
so many times that they failed now to intrigue his atten¬ 
tion. Round about the evening light had dimmed. He 
looked up over the heads of his companions to the trees 
which met in a leafy canopy above. Far beyond them the 
blue-steel sky ached serene, and like a great jewel in it 
appeared the moon. Bright and round it was, also, like the 
face of his beloved. Masha. Was she too looking at that 
same moon? Was she thinking of him? His podgy fist 
closed tighter about the letter which crumpled within it 
and crackled pleasantly. “I must have the letter read to 
me again,” he thought. He turned from the tree which 
had supported him and began to make his way through the 
crowd, which was awaiting patiently the appearance of an¬ 
other speaker. “The Fairy’s tied our hearts with a golden 
strand,” he hummed as he shoved and elbowed towards the 
outer edge of the crowd. And Masha’s words shone bright 
in his memory. “The strand is stretched too long, too far, 
Foma dear. Every night my heart tugs at it to draw you 
nearer.” Nothing would break it. He would see to that. 

“Foma Ivanovitch!” He stopped and turned back to face 
the speaker of his name, who he saw to be the head of his 
company soviet, standing on the stump. “Aren’t you going 
to stay and vote on this important question of whether we 
fight or not? If we make peace or if we fight on the day 
after to-morrow, you want the satisfaction of knowing that 
you voted, whether the decision pleases you or not.” 

“Decision?” thought Foma. And then in a loud, clear 
voice he stated so that all could hear: “Have we not had 
the Revolution? Are we not free? Freedom means that 
every man can decide for himself. Well, I have decided. I 


T H E WI N E 231 

have been shot through the chest once and blown up once. 
It is enough. I shall not fight any more. You can do as 
you please. To-morrow I start back to Petrograd and home.” 

He resumed his way through the crowd. 

A buzz of comment arose at his statement. Discussion be¬ 
gan anew all round the half-circle of men. Meanwhile Foma 
had got clear of them and was well on his way to a quiet spot 
he knew of, where from the shelter of the trees he could see 
the gleaming moon in the fathomless sky, hold the letter 
open before him, and by its light see for the hundredth time 
the scrawling, precious words. 

The following day he learned that the meeting had dis¬ 
integrated without a decision. No vote had been reached. 
When, in the afternoon, however, he set out for the real 
and the nearest railroad, loaded down with supplies and 
utensils, there were plenty of others for company, and all 
through the day and night still more followed. The few 
who remained could do nothing but make their way up the 
line to join what troops they could find. 

When the enemy, early in the next morning, dashed across 
the open fields they were at first surprised at the lack of 
opposition. They were still more surprised to find the empty 
trenches and abandoned supplies where had been the Russian 
troops. 


XXI 

Summer, like a pleasant visitor who thinks he has stayed 
too long, took a hurried and unforewarned departure. 

The short fall settled upon the city with its dank winds, 
its moist and lowering clouds, and its obliteration of the 
sun. In the parks the leaves fell in despair, grassy plots 
faded, and evenings found them deserted. No more the 
promenaders with their happy faces. The streets became 
again shifting processions of drab and motley people devoid 


232 WINE OF FURY 

of the colour and zest of summer; and over all, at the 
threat of impending winter, hung the baleful influence of 
fear. 

Fear, among other things, of slow starvation. Food was 
noticeably scarce and poor. It seemed as though each week 
brought a reduction of the bread ration; and the cards for 
butter, eggs and sugar had long ago become useless. Meat 
became horse meat, with no attempt made to conceal the 
carcases as they were dragged from the carts across the dirty 
pavements to the meat markets. 

With the nights again dark, the streets, unguarded by 
police of any sort, were avenues of uncertainty. Each morn¬ 
ing brought stories of robberies, of hold-ups, of drunken 
brawls, and—as time went on—of murder and mutilation on 
the main thoroughfares. Eventually night found them almost 
deserted. 

There came threats of uprisings in the city—against the 
Jews, against the foreign colonies which were accused of con¬ 
spiring with the monarchists to help restore the Tsar, and, 
as usual, against the Provisional Government. 

Daily the ranks of the agitators showed reinforcements. 
Speakers harangued from every corner. Meetings held in 
all sections of the city protested against every move of the 
powers that were struggling to be. 

For Kerensky no epithet was too harsh. “Tyrant!” shouted 
the speakers from their points of vantage. “Autocrat!” “He 
intends to appoint himself as Tsar.” “He is a counter¬ 
revolutionist.” Such were the cries. 

Demonstrations took place in the street before the Gov¬ 
ernment headquarters—the Winter Palace; demonstrations 
against this policy and that, against one minister and another. 
A procession through the streets, a howling crowd, scarlet 
banners with their demands in gilt thereon, and a Govern¬ 
ment policy was changed or a minister found himself rele¬ 
gated to oblivion. One by one they went, keeping the des¬ 
perate Kerensky frantically at work with the task of holding 
together a Cabinet. 


THE WINE 233 

No longer were the extremists cautious of their speeches 
or secretive as to the time of their attempt to seize the power. 
They named the day and openly boasted of their success. 

From the city flowed a swelling stream of the cautious and 
the timid, while, like a dirty backwash, there trickled into it 
from all sides the beggar, the thief and the professional 
criminal to join the ranks of the extremists. 

One afternoon they demonstrated in mass and in public 
in a parade of anarchists. Down the Nevsky they came, a 
motley crowd of a thousand, clad in rags and tatters; dirty, 
bewhiskered, scarred and evil faces set grimly; armed with 
any and every weapon—rifles, bayonets, swords, pistols, lances 
and axes; their banners no longer the scarlet of revolution, 
but the black of anarchy, with a dripping head and bleed¬ 
ing hands painted thereon. There was no music and no sound 
save the scuffling of their heavy feet. Their criminal faces 
were set straight ahead in a look of insane irrelevancy which 
awed pedestrians and the drivers of vehicles in the streets, who 
silently drew aside to make way for the passage of this horde 
from the Inferno. 

Outside the city the enemy took this opportunity to close 
in. News came of the defeat of the Russian fleet, of the 
sinking of one of its ships, and of the capture of the fortified 
islands commanding the approach of the Gulf of Finland. 
The enemy had his finger on the jugular vein of Petrograd. 

Rumours permeated the city. Fear increased at their rep¬ 
etition. When would the Germans capture the city? When 
would they begin to bomb it from aeroplanes and zeppelins? 
The answer to such questions was to be found at the railroad 
stations, where, with the departure of every train, many were 
injured—women, children, men, all alike—in the rush to 
clamber aboard. The river, too, became an outlet for the 
fear-stricken. Barges lined the quays, and for days lines of 
carts brought to them trunks, barrels, packing-cases, even un¬ 
packed household belongings, which were stowed away both 
below and on deck in preparation for the flight—if it could 
be called such—in tow of a grunting tug up the river. 


234 WINE OF FURY 

Through these rumours, across the swirl of these events, 
David continued on his way. He heard, he saw with every¬ 
one else; but somehow these experiences which once would 
have disturbed him immeasurably now failed to influence 
the determined pursuit of his aims. This was not difficult to 
comprehend. The cries of “Revolution,” “Counter-Revolu¬ 
tion,” “Bolshevism” and “Anarchy” had been heard so often 
and the event had so often failed to follow the prophecy that, 
in company with many from the foreign colonies, he had ar¬ 
rived at an estimate of the Russian people. “Nothing will 
happen,” he remarked one day after the circulation of a 
particularly dire threat on the part of the Bolshevists. “It 
is only talk. These people mistake seeing their aims and 
* talking about them for action and the achievement of them.” 

Then, too, other considerations preoccupied him. Prin¬ 
cipally, his work. These was no diminution of this. On 
the contrary, a progressive increase. Day after day the num¬ 
ber of accounts mounted and the storm of incoming letters 
intensified. Night after night he and his men laboured in a 
frantic and vain effort to keep pace with the demands made 
upon them by apprehensive clients. And week after week the 
totals on the balance-sheet continued their regular deployment 
across the page. Within less than a year the branch bank 
had outstripped all other foreign banks in the city. Already 
it ranked above the newer native institutions. At the same 
rate of growth it would not be long before it passed some of 
those which were old and most respected. 

As the manager, the responsible one, much of the admira¬ 
tion, respect and even awe which this progress commanded 
was tendered to David. Although aware of the fortuitous 
circumstances which had prompted the sudden confidence in a 
foreign bank, those who understood such things conceded 
credit to David for his energetic, untiring exploitation of those 
circumstances. He was consulted. He was quoted. Officials 
of other banks catered to his requests. Even Government 
treasury officials came to him for counsel. He had become a 


T H E WI N E 235 

man of importance, a power in the financial life of the 
country. 

Although he appreciated, perhaps more accurately than 
anyone else, the power of the circumstances which had con¬ 
tributed to this, he derived pleasure from it. Simple honesty 
compelled the admission that it was a personal victory too. 
His days and nights of unreserved effort, his ability to instil 
his aides with his own enthusiasm, and his resourcefulness, 
driving-power and tact had something to do with it. The 
realisation pleased him. This was the approach of his goal. 
This was the approximation of success. 

He had set a definite figure with the attainment of which 
he would consider his success as unreservedly established. 
“With that point reached,” he thought, “there can be no doubt 
of it. My reputation will be made.” A thrill of pleasure 
spread over him at the succeeding thought. “With that I can 
go to Natalie as a successful man and ask her to set the date 
for our marriage.” 

One evening after hours, while he lingered alone in his 
office indulging in such pleasant considerations, the doorman 
brought him a note which he said had been delivered by an 
urchin who refused to await an answer. He tore the envelope 
and unfolded the single sheet of paper within. The few 
lines of scrawling writing challenged him: 

Mr. Rand,— There will be trouble to-day, this evening. Keep off the 
streets. Watch your office closely. It is known that you have gold 
there, and there are those who would take it. Such secrets should 
not be entrusted to women—friendly or otherwise. 

R. 

He stood immovable as the full import of the note surged 
over him. The gold. He had thought it to be secure, that 
no one would ever know of its presence until the affair was 
successfully settled and the error of its coming explained. 
He had not forgotten it himself, but within the last few 


236 WINE OF FURY 

months his mind had gained some rest on the subject. And 
now here it was again, dragged out to try him. Its presence 
known by others. It retained all its old power to impugn his 
motives in the eyes of the Government authorities, and ad¬ 
vertisement brought added fear lest there be attempts to steal 
it. 

He closed his eyes at the realisation of what might happen. 
In the darkness the words of the letter seemed written in 
flame. The initial signature was Radkin’s. He recognised 
that scrawling “R” the man had used when employed in 
in the bank. But where had he learned of the gold? 

There were but three people with whom he was in contact 
who knew the secret: the clerk who had inadvertently ac¬ 
cepted the metal, long since returned to the United States; 
himself, and—Natalie. She had accompanied him to the of¬ 
fice that day and quite by chance had seen the golden bars. 
“Surely,” he thought, “she wouldn’t tell anyone.” How then? 

He considered the note again. The significance of the last 
sentence, unnoted in the shock of the surprise, held his fur¬ 
tive thoughts. “Such secrets should not be entrusted to 
women,” it ran, “friendly or otherwise.” Natalie happened 
to be the only woman entrusted with the secret. Who else 
did Radkin mean? What other woman was there who might 
know of it, and how? 

Naritza. She and Natalie had seen each other quite often 
in order to arrange the details of the benefit ballet. Natalie 
might have told her. Impossible/! He disclaimed the 
thought. And yet it persisted in a dark corner of his mind, 
like a slinking, light-fearing animal. 

The more he shook his head and refused to accept it, the 
more he realised that, absurd as the thought might be, it 
could now only be banished by the clear light of Natalie’s 
denial. 

“To suggest it will insult her,” he thought. “No, she will 
understand. She will answer clearly and decisively. It’s 
the best way.” 

He hurried to the street, flagged a passing isvotschik, clam- 


THE WINE 237 

bered in and explained his destination to the driver. After a 
few seconds of haggling over the price they set off. 

Colour seemed to have gone out of the colourful city. 
Overhead grey, restless clouds obscured the sky. The water 
of the river reflected this dullness, and the streets were dry 
and dim with dust. The chill hand of fall had stripped the 
parks of their green foliage and in place of their former 
glory there were now the stiff grey skeletons of the trees. A 
damp chill in the atmosphere caused him to shiver and wish 
for his overcoat. Or was it a shiver of apprehension? 

They moved slowly. The streets were crowded with hurry¬ 
ing people, all converging at the bridges, which became arched 
and writhing black masses of humanity against the dull sky. 
They overflowed the sidewalks and walked with mob im¬ 
punity beside and in front of the horse. He noted the ab¬ 
sence of other vehicles—no trams, no automobiles, only a 
few isvotschiks. Hardly a sound arose from the streaming 
crowds struggling against each other to get across the river. 

At the Dukharin home the Princess, frightened by his 
account of what was happening, assured him that Natalie 
could be found at the hospital. She begged him to bring 
her away and to escort her home. 

The carriage rattled off on the jaunt back across the sullen 
river and up the quay to the hospital. At the entrance to the 
bridge stood a platoon of shaggy-hatted Siberian soldiers. 
They regarded the now frantic struggles of the crowd on the 
bridge stolidly. It was thicker than before, and lines of peo¬ 
ple joined it from the side-streets and from down the quay. 
Far down the river he noted that the bridges were drawn, 
permitting no passage. It was this circumstance which sent 
the hurrying throngs to this bridge, the only one, as far as he 
could see, still intact. He felt the tension in the air and, 
lest the draw should be opened before they were across, he 
urged the driver to further speed. 

As the carriage rolled out upon the bridge three shots 
sounded sharp and clear from the direction of the hospital. 
The driver reined in his horse and, turning on the high seat, 


238 WINE OF FURY 

ejaculated harshly: “Fighting, barin. There is shooting 

where we go. Shall we go back?” 

“Go on,” ordered David determinedly. They rattled on, 
off the bridge and turned up the quay. Here the crowds were 
even thicker and more in haste and it was with difficulty that 
the horse made its way. The little carriage with David alone 
in the rear seat constituted the only vehicle on the streets 
and it attracted considerable attention from the surrounding 
people. Words of warning were shouted at him. “Trouble 
up that way. Better not go on.” And many, far removed 
in the crowd from him, pointed up the river, shaking their 
heads. 

The driver’s agitation increased. Again he tried to stop 
and argue David into abandoning his ride. Again he re¬ 
ceived the determined answer: “Go on.” He obeyed, shout¬ 
ing at the pedestrians who blocked the way and urging the 
horse to increased exertion. His fear seemed to mount with 
each block travelled and he turned and shouted his increased 
demands for completion of the journey. “Ten roubles, barin, 
or I must stop.” Repeated urgings of the horse and another 
block. “Fifteen roubles, barin, or I cannot go on.” An¬ 
other grim nod from David, lashing of the tired animal with 
,the leather-thonged whip, and one block more. “Twenty 
roubles. It must be twenty roubles!” came the terror- 
stricken cry as the hospital and the crowds about the sur¬ 
rounding buildings were sighted. A final nod, a few final 
lashes and the carriage came to a stop before the closed doors. 

David slid to the sidewalk. “Wait,” he ordered, and 
started for the steps. 

“No, barin, no,” screamed the panting driver, “I cannot 
wait. There will be great fighting. Pay now, quickly.” 
He leaned far over from his perch, extending a claw-like 
hand with twitching fingers. 

Something of the rascal’s fear communicated itself to David, 
and he tried to banish it with a show of disgust. “All right,” 
he said placatingly, “don’t then. Here.” He took twenty- 


THE WINE 239 

five roubles from his pocket. “Here’s twenty-five . . . and 
• . . to hell with you!” 

The driver understood the figures on the hill better than 
the sentiment expressed. His grimy paw clenched about the 
hill, white teeth gleamed through his shaggy whiskers, and 
he doffed his round hat, howing repeatedly. “Thank you, 
baiin!” he exclaimed. “God protect you. Giddap!” He 
lashed the horse’s wet flank and was off down the quay for 
the nearest shelter. 

As he mounted the steps to the entrance to the hospital a 
fleeting panoramic glimpse of the square and its encompass¬ 
ing buildings registered in David’s mind. 

The square seethed with humanity. People pushed and 
squirmed this way and that, shouting and gesticulating; 
crowds gathered on the corners, on steps of neighbouring 
structures, pressed into windows and doorways, and strained 
up against the walls of the buildings as though trying to 
melt through them. All watched, looking furtively about, 
waiting with that fearful, strained anticipation with which one 
watches great pressure being applied to a rubber band, won¬ 
dering when it will snap and how great will be its sting. 

In the entrance hall the odour of disinfectants sickened him 
slightly. The attendant in white requested his business. 
“Miss Dukharin,” he stated; “I wish to see her.” 

He was ushered into the bare, white waiting-room with 
its gaunt chairs. He found himself unable to sit down. He 
paced the hardwood floor. 

A door behind him opened and he turned to see Natalie 
quietly pulling it to behind her. At first he thought that 
she too was frightened. Her oval face was pale, her dark 
eyes troubled, and her breath came fast. But the direct, col¬ 
lected gaze with which she faced him dispelled that idea. She 
had been working hard and rapidly. The ringlets of hair 
which had escaped from under the swathings of her nurse’s 
head-dress were damp from exertion, and her hands, glistening 
from immersion in some solution, she held away from her 


240 WINE OF FURY 

sides and the spotless white apron. Somehow, as she stood 
there expectantly, the stark simplicity of her clothing and 
surroundings made her seem all the more beautiful. 

“Yes, David?” she said inquiringly. 

He knew what he wanted to say, yet he hesitated. Some¬ 
thing about it was not right. It did not occur to him that his 
question should be prepared, led up to in order to avoid 
false impressions. He did not realise what further tensity 
his words would contribute to the already taut, vibrant atmos¬ 
phere of the room. “Natalie,” he asked, “did you ever tell 
Naritza or anyone that there was gold concealed in my office?” 

At first he thought she had not heard. She made no 
answer. Then he saw that she was thinking. Thought 
wrinkled her sheer forehead. She was considering how to 
banish the suspicions completely, no doubt. He prepared to 
give expression to his own relieved delight when she should 
do this with a few decisive words. She looked up at him. 
Something wistful pulled up and together the inner ends of 
her sweeping eyebrows. Her lips moved slowly. 

“I don’t know,” she said. 

“Don’t know! Natalie! What do you mean?” 

“That I’m not sure,” came the reply in low, self- 
condemnatory tones. “I may have done it. We have been to¬ 
gether often this last month. The benefit. She asks many 
questions. I may have told her indirectly. It is probable 
that I did. I can’t deny it.” 

He felt as though some co-ordinating influence had slipped 
away from him. Natalie, a corner-stone of his new world, 
his new life, had failed him. Things were not what they ap¬ 
peared to be. Even the room in which he stood—its straight, 
square-cornered lines, its bare walls, its stiff furniture— 
seemed to sag and bend unnaturally, to elude his compre¬ 
hension. He felt himself striving to reach a solid basis for 
speech and action and encountering no definite opposition, 
only frustration. In it he heard the decisive crack of rifle¬ 
shots, followed by the ripping of machine-guns and the con¬ 
fused outcries of crowds in terror—shrieks and wails and the 


THE WINE 241 

scuffling of countless feet. All about him it sounded, and for 
long moments he imagined himself one of those he could not 
see, struggling to escape the insensate storm of destruction. 

Moments flew past. Gradually his senses were re-co¬ 
ordinated. Sounds close by brought back the details of his 
immediate environment. Outside in the hallway he heard the 
front door opened; it magnified the noises from the streets. 
Clumsy steps and exclamations sounded, as though heavy bun¬ 
dles were being carried in. Another moment and the door 
behind Natalie, standing as though rendered motionless by 
the pandemonium outside, opened and a voice whispered: 
“Excuse me, Natalie Mikhailovna, but two more have just been 
brought in. They are badly hurt. Please come quickly.” 
Through the narrow opening came the reinforced odour of 
disinfectants, and in the room beyond, David’s staring eyes 
saw the form of a man on the floor, half-stripped of cloth¬ 
ing, swift hands manipulating white rolls of bandages over 
a muscled chest. 

The glimpse of it and the odour of the disinfectant was 
nauseating. The wall of reserve which had been years in 
the building between the world and the currents of emotion 
within him crumbled, and the flood of his mixed feelings 
and thoughts burst through. 

“Why did you do it, Natalie?” he cried. “Why? You? 
It threatens all that I’ve done. You of all people. Deny it, 
Natalie. Say it isn’t true. That it’s all a mistake, a joke, if 
you will. Deny it.” 

She stood still before his reproach, her head bowed in re¬ 
crimination. “I can’t deny it,” she said softly. “But the 
gold belongs to me. It was from one of father’s mines. He 
loaned it to the bank which sent it to you. The lawyers told 
me that it was part of my share of the estate. I should think 
I could mention it.” 

He looked at her, speechless, as her words came to him. 
He heard clearly, but the confusion in his mind prevented 
him viewing the situation from any angle other than that 
of his own interest. 



242 WINE OF FURY 

“It makes no difference who owns it,” he continued. 
“Can’t you see that while it is in my vaults it is my obliga¬ 
tion? It should not be where it is. Its discovery will threaten 
my whole position. And now you have told of it to the one 
person in the empire or republic or whatever they call it now 
who can do the most damage with the information. I asked 
you to keep away from her. But no, you insisted. That 
benefit. Nothing was as important as this damned hospital—” 

Something stopped him. Natalie was looking him squarely 
in the eyes. Hers shone with a new intensity. Her lips were 
compressed to a thin, straight line. Her clenched hands 
pressed against her white dress. Her whole quiet, malleable 
personality semed to have tempered like Cordovan steel of 
old under the hot oil of his words. 

From outside came the rattle and rip of the firing, the 
single, deep-throated boom of a big gun from down the river, 
and an occasional human cry. 

His thoughts became coherent again. It was real then, this 
fighting in the streets. “The extremists,” he thought. “The 
Bolsheviks. They are at it again. They are mad.” He 
paused as a new and compelling idea flashed through his 
mind. “Already they may know of it. They may be batter¬ 
ing down the doors, ransacking the place. And I am not 
there. . . .” He stopped and with a wild look about the 
room—a look which did not include the staring girl before 
him—he turned and ran to the hallway. 

Natalie hurried after him, and as he pulled open the main 
door of the building she cried out: “No, David, don’t go. 
They will kill you.” A prolonged cry of desperation es¬ 
caped her lips as she saw that, unheeding, he hurtled down 
the steps and dashed off along the quay. She closed the door 
and leaned limply against it, her hands pressed to her face. 

In the streets the great crowds were no more. As he ran, 
David caught glimpses of people gathered for refuge in the 
side alleys, huddled in doorways, behind pillars and posts, 
even lying in the gutters for protection. Only a few frantic 
stragglers were left on the open quay, caught in the cross- 


THE WINE 243 

currents of bullets which whined overhead, ricochetted along 
the pavements, bit evilly into the plaster walls, and here and 
there smacked through a window, sometimes leaving but a 
round hole, and sometimes sending the glass tinkling to the 
sidewalks. 

Shouts of warning followed the madly rushing man as he 
crossed the side-streets. Once a figure stepped out to stop 
him, perhaps to lead him back to safety, only to be shouldered 
aside for his generosity. 

Another thunderous clap from far down the river seemed 
to lure him to increased speed. There dashed out in front 
of him a young cadet, a shout of warning on his lips and 
the gleam of youthful excitement in his long-lashed eyes. 
David slackened his pace in order to dodge. Suddenly the 
boy’s cap flew straight up in the air, a round hole appeared 
in his forehead and he dived on his face to the pavement, 
where, after a convulsive twitching of indrawn arms and legs, 
he lay limply still, his twisted face the centre of a widening 
cerise pool. 

Horror at the swift workings of this unseen force which 
changed the exuberant, graceful strength of the living boy 
to the useless thing crumpled at his feet rendered him immov¬ 
able for a moment. Then, as another bullet, following hot 
on the path of the successful one, bit into the wall just above 
his head, showering him with pulverised plaster, he resumed 
his wild course. 

At the entrance to his building he had to endure what 
seemed hours of fearful waiting while the guards within strug¬ 
gled with the heavy lock. Once inside, a look round told 
him that there had been no disturbance. Without knowing 
why, he mounted the stairs to his office two at a time and 
stood in the unlighted room for moments breathing tempestu¬ 
ously. 

A semblance of calm regained, he stepped to the wall 
which concealed the safe. He opened its heavy door, reveal¬ 
ing the gold bars piled in a pyramidical heap. He looked 
at them in reflection. The sullen yellow metal remained im- 


244 WINE OF FURY 

perturbable under his gaze. Its squat solidity seemed to mock 
the instability of his thoughts under the weight of care it 
had imposed. In its present aspect it was to him the solidified 
essence of avarice, the lodestone of evil which was exerting 
its influence upon all the shunned forces of his complicated 
environment. Here and there on the bars’ surfaces light 
played in gleams through the shadow, flashing and vanishing 
like the swift succession of his emotions—regret that he had 
trusted anyone; resentment at the duplicity of people about 
him; anger that the success of his efforts should now be over¬ 
shadowed by the lusts which the treasure might arouse. Re¬ 
gret, distrust, resentment, anger—such were the emotions 
which responded to the sight of this metal, and involved in 
them he stood before the gleaming pyramid throughout many 
long, reflective minutes, while outside in the encompassing 
city echoed the devilish dissonance of lust for the wine of 
fury. 


PART III 


FURY 




I 


F OLLOWED two vicious nights when the city lay at the 
mercy of the reckless who punctured its gloom with 
flame from rifle and machine-gun; two nights when the 
soldiers of the garrison, company by company transferring 
allegiance to the extremists, left the defence of the disin¬ 
tegrated Provisional Government to a battalion of female sol¬ 
diers and the boys of the cadet schools; two nights when the 
confused chorus of the routine gave way to profound silences 
of apprehension, which were shattered by the rush of strug¬ 
gling feet, the intermittent crackle of musketry, the voice of 
fighter and non-combatant raised in pain or fear, the eruption 
of shooting from barricades, windows and roofs, and the thun¬ 
derous, punctuating explosion of shells tossed into the pan¬ 
demonium by a cruiser down the river; two nights when the 
hope that the morrow would bring better times to stricken 
Russia sank to the depths of hopeless despair as the third 
day dawned upon the proclamation of the Soviet Government 
and the sight of the stiffening bodies of the boy cadets, mur¬ 
dered after surrender and disarmament, being stripped and 
plundered by soldiers of the new freedom. 

From it the city did not emerge unscathed. The storm 
of lead left its marks on all sides. In the streets the early, 
venturesome traffic found its way impeded by remnants of 
barricades, abandoned motor cars riddled with bullets, and 
clumsy horses struck down in the angular motion of flight. 
Splintered glass carpeted the sidewalks, leaving shattered 
windows gaping into the streets. Doors hung smashed and 
spotted with holes; those attractive targets, the outdoor clocks, 
had long since stopped in deference to wanton bullets through 

247 


248 WINE OF FURY 

their vitals; and the sides of buildings were flecked with the 
marks of flying lead like the great pock-marks of a loath¬ 
some disease. 

Over the general disorganisation hovered a persistent 
miasma of baleful rumours: that the ousted Government, hav¬ 
ing recruited forces at the front, were marching on Petrograd 
with the unchangeable purpose of exterminating Bolshe¬ 
viks and Bolshevism; that should these attacking forces suc¬ 
ceed in taking the city, they would find nothing but walls 
of buildings battered to ruins by the guns of the insurgent 
warships in the river; that the attackers would not attempt to 
capture the city by violence, but by siege and starvation; and 
that in the event of such a procedure the Bolsheviks would 
plunder every house, every building in the city and go down 
in a blaze of murder and destruction. 

Meanwhile activity revived. Trams resumed their routes, 
although at intervals of increasing length; street lights burned 
dimly for a few hours at least; wagons and automobiles ven¬ 
tured forth, followed at last by the isvotschiks, who now be¬ 
came exorbitant in their demands and peremptory in their 
bargaining. At the corners gaunt Red Guards patrolled with 
shouldered rifles, and at nights they gathered in groups round 
wood fires, shouting and laughing in boisterous glee at the 
success of their coup d’etat; while from the outer circles of 
the city, where stalked hunger and lust, came the stutter of 
rifle-fire. 

The populace resumed its weary way. Some, from every 
point of vantage, hailed the advent of the Commune. Others 
quietly denounced it and if questioned on the subject would 
look ashamed and apologise for the disgrace to Russia’s name, 
giving the assurance: “It cannot last long; people will not 
stand for these fanatics; in two weeks they will be hustled 
out of the city.” Still others, and to all appearances these 
were the vast majority, displayed little if any interest one 
way or the other. The spark of inspiration smouldering in 
their breasts failed to burst into flame even when fanned by 
the rush of events. While a few contested for the destiny of 


FURY 249 

a nation the great majority looked on in wonder, without ap¬ 
parent realisation, without understanding. 

Bands of armed men march the streets or race to and fro 
in automobiles; there is fighting about public buildings and 
a suspension of routine; after a while comparative quiet, 
and people emerge from their shelters. A government has 
fallen and another stands with swinging arms over its body. 
Another tremor circles the world. 

Meanwhile things as they are, still are. Ivan Ivanovitch 
still drives his cart, although its load is lighter; and Pasha 
Ivanovna still patters to the market, to stand in a slightly 
longer line. If the new order fits, it is put on and worn; if 
it does not fit, it is discarded. For the minds of the masses 
are not concerned with experiments in government, but with 
problems in comfort and happiness. 


II 

David, standing at the long window of his office, shifted 
his gaze from the grey vista of the Neva and the mist- 
enveloped city to the letter in his hand. 

“To me” (he had written) “it is absurd to think that the 
Bolsheviks can hold the power. They are ridiculous in their 
efforts at government. When their antics get beyond the hu¬ 
morous and the serious results begin to appear, I am sure the 
people will rise and turn them out. 

“I have discussed the subject with men of affairs here and 
common opinion seems to support this view. It is thought 
that their downfall will be the result of a split in their own 
ranks between the more and the less radical branches. There 
is ground for this opinion. There is a bitter difference of 
thought in the radical forces over the treatment of the bour¬ 
geoisie opposition to their policies. This opposition will be 
just as determined and relentless as was that of the Bol¬ 
sheviks to the bourgeoisie government. Already one faction 


250 WINE OF FURY 

of the radicals, throwing aside all restraining influences, is 
advocating merciless warfare, to the point of extermination, 
on the bourgeoisie, and although at present the more con¬ 
servative faction seems to have prevented such warfare, it 
may break out at any time with a resultant split in the Bol¬ 
shevik ranks. 

“It is difficult to learn anything except by rumour, because 
all the newspapers are suppressed save one or two rabid Bol¬ 
shevik sheets which devote their space to eulogies of the new 
freedom. Freedom! There isn’t any—of action, print or 
speech. And even freedom of thought is frightened out of 
the heads of the people by the constantly flourished rifles of 
the Red Guards. They shoot at any time, and upon the slight¬ 
est provocation. Day and night, somewhere, when you ven¬ 
ture out, there is firing, either far across the city or before 
your very eyes. It is not pleasant. 

“You will be pleased to know that in spite of all this 
we have progressed with our work. The situation has re¬ 
sulted much the same as that of the Revolution of last March. 
Panic-stricken, people have brought their money to us. New 
business has actually beat at our doors for the last two weeks. 
By the exhausting process of working day and night we have 
met the emergency and so taken advantage of it that our 
balance-sheet has reached a figure undreamed of even in our 
plans as mapped out for the next five years to come. I en¬ 
close a copy of it as prepared for me this morning. From it 
you will see that we have accomplished an unparalleled feat 
in international finance.” 

The letter closed with a few appropriate sentences. Turn¬ 
ing to his desk he signed it, and with it set aside for the 
friend who was to carry it out of the country for him he 
rose again to stand in the bay-window. 

“We have accomplished an unparalleled feat in interna¬ 
tional finance.” The statement clung in his thoughts. “/ 
have accomplished . . .” was what he should have written. 
It was not conceit to think it, to acknowledge it. Friends had 


FURY 251 

pointed out to him that it was a personal victory. Anyone 
with less determination, less sacrifice of self, with less courage 
and energy, would have given up long ago. He knew that. 
He wondered if they realised it at home. Not fully, of 
course. Those who had never worked day after day, night 
after night, without the nourishment of good and sufficient 
food, who had never known the nervous tension of walking 
bullet-swept streets—they could never comprehend the sheer 
nervous power required to push the routine under such cir¬ 
cumstances. 

Yes, the victory which would be his with the passing of 
this last obstacle, the Bolshevik government—a passing which 
could not be far off—would be a personal victory, the vindi¬ 
cation of a theory, the successful application of his philosophy. 

Somehow the proximity of his final success did not thrill 
him as he had anticipated. Without an audience, without 
someone to share it, the satisfaction gave but little pleasure. 
The recent events seemed to have cut him off from his former 
friends and acquaintances. All seemed to be scattered or so 
involved in their personal affairs that the social phase of 
existence had vanished. What had become of them? What 
were they doing? Radkin he had not seen since the Bolshevik 
coup. Rumour had it that he now occupied an important 
position in the new Government. What was it? How had 
the triumph of his efforts and his group affected him? Anna 
and Alexei? Where was the tempestuous course of their love 
taking them? And the Princess? What was she thinking 
and saying of the proposed dictatorship of the proletariat for 
whom, all her stilted life, she had had so little use? These 
and further thoughts and queries came—concerning Naritza, 
the maid Masha and the soldier Foma Ivanovitch, the Coun¬ 
tess, and constantly and predominantly Natalie. He shook 
his head in despair at the perversity of circumstances which, 
with victory so near, had led him so far from her. 

He had not seen her since that fateful evening in the 
waiting-room of the hospital. And this despite the fact that 
for days in his reflections every process of his reasoning, every 


252 WINEOFFURY 

current of his emotion urged him to see her, to learn from 
her own lips what she thought of him and if possible to make 
his stand clear. “Why,” he had repeatedly asked himself, 
“didn’t I explain how the fact of the gold belonging to her 
only increased my responsibility, made it more imperative that 
no one else should know of it? Why did I lose my self- 
control? I shall see her to-morrow.” 

But on each morrow the memory of her as she stood before 
him in the stark room listening to his excited speech, of which 
he now remembered little, of her eyes dilating at the shock 
of his words and slowly closing with the pain they inflicted— 
the consolidated circumstance of that moment overbalanced 
the weight of his decision. 

During the last two days when the rush of work had abated 
and he found himself with some degree of liberty he had set 
out up the quay towards the hospital. Half-way there it had 
occurred to him that she would no doubt be busy, that if he 
did see her it would be in the presence of others. Which 
would not do. “It would be in the same room, too,” he 
thought. He turned back. “I must see her alone, in her 
house,” he decided. He had tried to reach her at the house 
by telephone, but a guttural voice shouting “Impossible!” had 
constituted the only answer to his repeated request for the 
number. 

Now he felt that he could no longer keep away from her. 
Would she see him? What did she think of him? What 
would she say? What should he say to her? The questions 
tumbled in his mind like a falling stream. “I will go to her 
home now,” he resolved. 

Outside the long white nights had vanished with the sum¬ 
mer. The air bore once again the damp chill of approaching 
winter and he reflected that before many weeks its incessant 
snow, its early darkness, and its choking fogs of frost would 
envelop them in a seven months’ grip. Already there was a 
tinge of it in the atmosphere, a tinge which, acting like a 
warning, quickened the listless movements of the loiterers and 


FURY 253 

sent those few on the streets who had definite business the 
more rapidly about it. 

Across the river and walking along the bordering park of 
the Kamenno-Ostroffski Prospekt, he saw an isvotschik swing 
from a side-street into the avenue and roll past him towards 
the bridge. Sitting erect in the passenger’s seat, her brows 
contracted in an expression of worry, was Natalie. 

He turned in surprise and watched the speeding carriage 
and its occupant. Had she seen him? It was quite possible. 
Had she deliberately avoided him and ordered the driver to 
hurry on? Was this the answer to the question which had 
haunted him ever since his outburst to her that evening in the 
hospital? 

The possibility was too much for him. He sat down on 
one of the park benches and abandoned himself to the rush 
of his thoughts. Underneath them all lay one, unchangeable, 
as though carved in stone, and unanswerable: “With success 
so near, am I to lose Natalie?” 

Minutes passed and he arrived at no definite conclusion, 
could decide upon no definite course of action. Gradually 
he became again aware of his surroundings. The grass of the 
narrow park stretched away on both sides in irregular 
splotches of withered brown and dust-laden green. On the 
gravel walks the crisp brown leaves stirred with uneasy noises 
in the occasional puffs of air which came from the river. And 
across the walk, in the indefinite distance, his gaze lost itself 
in the planless intricacies of the trees’ black branches stark 
against the slate sky. 

On a bench not quite opposite sat a man apparently either 
asleep or lost in thought, his head turned in sharp-featured 
profile. From the cut and neatness of his grey-black suit and 
black felt hat pulled down over his eyes, he was of the well- 
to-do merchant class. David was aware that since his own 
coming to the boulevard the gentleman had not moved. His 
head remained bowed almost to his chest; his hands relaxed 
in his lap; one leg slanted back under the seat and the other 


254 WINE OF FURY 

stretched out straight before him in the path of whomsoever 
went by. The passers-by, most of them, turned their heads 
to look at the man; usually smiled and stepped over the out¬ 
stretched foot. They came in chance groups, and David 
watched them abstractedly. First a student, in his hurry, 
smiled condescendingly at the waster of time on the bench. 
Then a nurse, also in haste, who quickened her pace to hop 
lightly over the obstruction. Close behind, a fat Jew mer¬ 
chant who grumbled at the obstacle in his path and the effort 
his stepping over it necessitated. Came a frocked and 
bearded priest, his long silken hair falling in soft clusters 
about his temples; his low garments brushed the shoe of the 
man on the bench as he stepped serenely over it. A few steps 
behind tripped a neat little lady of the streets, her pert face 
garishly coloured and her silks swishing. She simulated pet¬ 
ulance at the upright foot before her, and in passing flicked 
it smartly with her own short-vamped, high-heeled slipper, 
looking round as she did so to enjoy the full effect of her 
reprimand. There was no effect. The man on the bench 
neither moved nor spoke. He gave her no more recognition 
than he had given the others from the procession of humanity, 
who had scowled or smiled upon him. He ignored them all. 
Except the tall soldier and the shawl-wrapped girl clinging to 
his arm. They gave him no opportunity. They strolled 
along the farther edge of the path, intent upon their own 
smiling, whispered conversation. They saw no one, nothing 
else; they heard no one, nothing else; and in their blissful 
oblivion they passed the man on the bench, unaware of his 
presence. They brought to David’s subconscious mind the 
recollection of the Dukharin maid Masha and the soldier 
Foma Ivanovitch whom he had seen together months—ages 
ago. What had become of them? Would he see them again? 

With a start he realised that his thinking had relaxed to re¬ 
flection. It had brought him no relief. It was time that he 
returned to the office. He stood up and looked again at the 
man on the bench, who ignored him with all the others. He 
noted that a handkerchief had fallen from the man’s hands. 


FURY 255 

It would be blown away by the first sustained stir of wind. 
He crossed the pathway to restore it to its imperturbable 
owner. As he approached an inexplicable apprehension 
spread over him, and as he bent to pick up the crumpled 
piece of linen he saw why the handkerchief had fallen. The 
pockets of the man on the bench were inside out; two of his 
fingers where rings had been were bruised and lacerated, and 
from out of his half-open mouth droned a busy fly. David 
gasped, straightened up and turned quickly away. As he did 
so, in the confusion of his thoughts, he found himself wonder¬ 
ing just which one of the last night’s crisp rifle-shots it had 
been. 


Ill 

The cook was entertaining friends at tea. Without having 
consulted the mistress of the house, either. Such was the 
custom under the new freedom. 

Although invited to take part in the conversation, Masha 
contributed little. Other thoughts monopolised her attention. 
And, moreover, she did not like one of the soldiers who had 
come with a maid from another house. Vletsky. 

Masha had never met him face to face, but Foma had told 
her about him and naturally she shared Foma’s dislike of 
the man. So she busied herself with needlessly scrupulous 
tasks about the kitchen where gathered the distinguished com¬ 
pany of five. She wiped again the white porcelain tiles of 
the huge low stove, rearranged the pots and pans in even, 
shining rows on the long shelves, and saw that the capacious 
wood-box was piled high with the short birch sticks. Finally, 
the cook interrupted her deliberate movements. “There is 
nothing more to do there, Marya Nikolaievna. Come and 
drink your tea. It is getting cold. Do you want some more 
hot water?” 

“Thanks, no,” replied Masha, seating herself at her place 
beside the usually bare table, now quite gay with the purring, 


256 WINE OF FURY 

steaming samovar, the glasses of tea with their gleaming wire 
holders, and the plates of bread, sardines and jam. 

. . and there’ll not be much more fighting now,” one 
of the soldiers was saying as he sipped his glass of tea. 
“The Council of Workmen’s and Soldiers’ Deputies has al¬ 
ready sent a committee to see the Germans about peace. 
We’re not surrendering. Don’t let anybody tell you that. 
But they’re going to arrange peace with the Germans, who 
want it too, but haven’t been able to talk about it because 
their diplomats wouldn’t let them.” 

“Have they really met those dogs of Germans, then?” asked 
the cook, who in 1915 had lost a brother in the war. 

“Don’t say that, Pasha Matrievna,” expostulated the soldier. 
“They are not dogs. They are our brothers. They don’t wish 
to fight any more than we do.” 

“Ah, but I wouldn’t trust them,” demurred the cook. 

“But why not? Already they have treated our committee 
splendidly. Look,” continued the soldier naively, “they de¬ 
scribed a neutral zone. Our men went to it at a certain time. 
They were blindfolded so they couldn’t see a thing. Oh, it 
was very mysterious and exciting! Then the Germans met 
them in automobiles and took them to headquarters, where 
they arranged for the conference for peace. It’s to begin . . . 
er . . . ah . . . I’ve forgotten just when, but it’s to begin 
anyway and that’s something. And we’re not surrendering 
either. The Germans are just agreeing with us not to fight 
any more.” 

“Yes, and what about their sending all the soldiers to the 
western front?” 

“Well, they promised they wouldn’t send a soldier. But 
even if they do, that isn’t our fault, is it? The French and 
the English left us to look out for ourselves and now they 
must look out for themselves.” 

“Listen,” broke in the other soldier, “I’ve heard that if 
we make a separate peace with the Germans the English will 
set Japan on us, and then what?” 

“No, they won’t,” stated Vletsky, blinking his narrow 


FURY 257 

watery eyes and smiling knowingly. “Because if they do, 
then we’ll side with the Germans and fight them. Besides, 
America doesn’t like the Japanese, and America wouldn’t let 
England do it.” 

“America, bah! What is that?” exclaimed the girl who 
had come with Yletsky. “I had an uncle in Kiev who went 
to America and came back because he didn’t like it. He said 
Americans are all rich and they won’t fight because they are 
afraid they will lose all their money.” 

“Well,” said the cook, “what will happen if Lenin and 
Trotsky are killed and a government that is not Bolshevik 
comes? I heard the Princess talking about it the other day.” 

“Ah, that is impossible now,” replied Vletsky. “It is 
too late. The aristocrats and the bourgeoisie can do nothing. 
They will do nothing. They are afraid to fight. It is all 
right to vote and have Dumas and Assemblies, but the people 
who govern are the ones who are willing to go out in the street 
and fight. We soldiers are always willing to do that, so we 
rule.” He shifted his shoulders with a bit of a swagger as he 
said this. The girls regarded him with admiration. Even 
Masha, who forgot for a moment what Foma had told her 
about Vletsky’s reputation as a mess-tahle, barracks fighter. 

“Isn’t that so, Marya Nikolaievna?” queried Yletsky. 

“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Masha, who hadn’t heard 
much of the conversation. She was counting again the num¬ 
ber of days it had been since she wrote the letter to Foma. 
Yes, there had been plenty of time for an answer, if only a 
message brought by a home-coming soldier. Why had he 
not sent some kind of an answer? Her eyes moistened as 
she dismissed again the thought of all the things which might 
have happened to him. 

“She was angry,” she heard the cook add, referring to the 
Princess Dukharina, “about having to give some clothes and 
blankets for the armies. All rich houses and apartments have 
to give something. If they don’t they are fined, or maybe the 
entire place is confiscated.” 

“She had better be careful that she doesn’t get too angry, 


258 WINE OF FURY 

and that she doesn’t say too much,” said Vletsky in a threaten¬ 
ing tone, “or she will find herself called up before the Cheka, 
the Chrezvechainaya—that’s the committee which is being or¬ 
ganised to fight the counter-revolutionists everywhere. There 
will be one in every city, and many in Petrograd. They will 
have absolute and final authority to call people up before 
them and to do what they want with them. It will be secret, 
too; even the members of the various committees, although I 
don’t mind telling you”—and here Vletsky leaned over the 
table and whispered—“they’ve promised to put me on one 
of the committees. So if there is anyone you don’t—anyone 
who’s against the Revolution in any way, just let me know, 
and the name will go on the black list.” 

Vletsky smiled in a superior manner as he looked about 
the awed circle of his friends, and, on the strength of the 
impression he had made, he helped himself to an enormous 
pat of jam spread over a loaf-sized piece of bread. 

The cook lumbered to correct an erroneous impression. 
“Oh, we don’t see much of her—the Princess. She doesn’t 
do much. But the young mistress, Natalie Mikhailovna, 
works very hard. She has always been good to us, hasn’t 
she, Masha Nikolaievna?” And without awaiting a reply 
from Masha, who was still lost in reverie over her glass of 
tea—as though the coiling vapour which rose from it had 
lured her senses away—the cook continued: “She lets us 
have all the company we want here. She gives us money 
at Easter and Christmas and . . . and . . . oh . . . lots of 
things. She is very good.” 

“Ah,” breathed Vletsky with a tinge of disappointment as 
he relaxed in his chair. The condor-like gleam slowly van¬ 
ished from his green, heavy-lidded eyes at this elimination of 
a possible enemy. “Well, she had better be good. Listen 
there, you girls, a friend of mine was entertaining some 
friends at tea in the kitchen. One of them was a general— 
a very good friend of mine too; he had just been made a 
general by the soldiers in his regiment. They killed the reg¬ 
ular general and chose my friend, who had been a private— 


FURY 259 

think of that, from private to general. He must have been 
a good man, eh? Anyway they were having their tea in the 
kitchen when the mistress came out and ordered them all to go 
home. Said they were too noisy. Said they were eating up 
all her supplies of food. And a lot of other things she said. 
Think of that! What an insult to a general! Well, my 
friend told me about it, and, even if I do tell a secret, the 
name of the mistress is on the black list. She will be pun¬ 
ished for insulting a general of the Soviet army.” 

Silence greeted this bit of intelligence. The glasses were 
refilled from the bubbling samovar and the conversation set 
out on a new course. 

Vletsky again noted that Masha had little liking for his 
society. He looked at her with his smirking smile and said 
insinuatingly: “I suppose Foma Ivanovitch will be made a 
general, will he not, Masha Nikolaievna?” 

Masha made no answer. 

The cook glanced sharply at Vletsky, put her finger on 
her lips and raised her eyebrows to signify that this topic 
with Masha was forbidden. 

Vletsky winked slowly in comprehension and pressed his 
insinuation. 

“Of course you have heard from Foma Ivanovitch?” he 
queried pleasantly. 

Only the clink of the tea-glasses and the sound of the 
cook’s open-mouthed mastication broke the silence which 
followed. 

“How did Foma Ivanovitch say things were going with him 
at the front?” continued Vletsky, with a knowing smirk on 
the side to the others, who regarded his efforts with something 
of misgiving. All knew that Masha Nikolaievna was easy 
to tease on this subject. 

“I suppose he has visited many of the towns down there 
in the south?” added Vletsky. 

Masha said nothing. 

“They say that the girls there are very pretty.” 

No sound from Masha. 


260 WINE OF FURY 

“And that the soldiers easily get acquainted with them.” 

It could be noted that Masha held the inside of her lower 
lip in her teeth to prevent its quivering. But she said noth¬ 
ing. 

“Do you suppose that Foma Ivanovitch has forgotten—” 

A heavy knock on the door that led from the kitchen down 
the narrow back stairs to the courtyard entrance interrupted 
Vletsky. Thankful for the interruption, Masha walked over 
and opened it. She gasped and stepped hack. The inter¬ 
ested spectators saw a pair of huge arms gather her into a 
greenish-grey soldier tunic, saw a bronzed, blond head bent 
and pressed close to hers, and heard a muffled exchange of 
words, a husky bass “Masha!” and a choking “Foma!” 

As Masha, her shining face even more shining with tears, 
led the bashful Foma into the kitchen, Vletsky rose from his 
chair in haste. He added his thin voice to the questions, 
answers and laughter of greeting which filled the room with 
happy sound. 

“We must be going,” he remarked to the cook. “Come, 
Akulina,” he said, beckoning to his surprised consort. And 
hurriedly, before Foma and Masha could get round to speak 
to them, Vletsky and his lady friend, the latter still with a 
piece of bread clutched in her hand, left the kitchen. When 
Masha turned to confront him in triumph, all that remained 
of Vletsky was the sound of his hobnails on the back stairs. 


IV 

The sequence of incident quickened its pace. Events econ¬ 
omic and political tumbled after each other with world- 
quivering reverberation, and in their midst, as though dazed 
by the swift flow, heavy-lidded Russia could only contemplate. 

The elements changed with the times. The sun vanished 
for its seven months’ hibernation behind the clouds, hanging 
leaden and oppressive from horizon to horizon, and an end¬ 
less source of supply for the relentless snow which fell with 


FURY 261 

maddening deliberation. The city, enveloped in mist, lost its 
florescent colour and, like a pale and weakening giant, sank 
slowly back to death. 

Private property was at public mercy. Looting, robbery, 
murder became the order of the day and night. Brigands en¬ 
tered the palaces and residences of the rich and despoiled 
them of their art treasures, some of which were destroyed, the 
remainder peddled in the streets for what they would bring. 
Wine cellars, forced open, became the rendezvous for the law¬ 
less. From these night after night came the sounds of bedlam 
—talking, laughing, shouts, groans, flashes of light in the 
darkness, glimmerings of candles, shots and frantic stumbling 
about. Near-by streets and squares were soon a litter of splin¬ 
tered glass, while the already dirty snow, like a coverlet on a 
huge bed of the wounded and delirious, showed an ever- 
increasing number of crimson stains. 

Such infested places became headquarters for crime, and 
from them roving bands set out to work their will upon the 
supine city in a mad career of wine, curses and lead-spitting 
rifles. 

Force seemed to be the only law. Pedestrians went armed, 
and thus thrown back into medieval times when each man 
was his own police protection, when the sole public safeguard 
was the individual’s quickness and sureness of eye, it is little 
wonder that each day’s chronicles were written in red. 

People displayed but little interest in political events. 
Even the postponement of the long-anticipated and all- 
powerful Constituent Assembly by the Soviet until it could 
organise the machinery to elect a majority of Soviet repre¬ 
sentatives, even this stroke of the suppressing iron hand failed 
to arouse opposing action. The fire of rage in the breasts of 
the intelligent opposition, as of yore, consumed to ashes the 
kindling spirit and it settled back with a gasp into the old 
apathy. The unintelligent lost their resentment in admiration 
for the decorations which draped the city in honour of the 
postponed Assembly—like children induced to forget a 
bruised finger by a display of pretty ribbons. 


262 WINE OF FURY 

Not long after this, activity of a mysterious nature mani¬ 
fested itself. At first only now and then, but eventually 
nightly, in far-flung parts of the city a black limousine 
stopped before the residence of a prominent bourgeoisie—a 
professor, a doctor, a high officer of the army, or, as in num¬ 
erous cases, a prosperous merchant or banker; heavily armed 
Red Guards took him from the family circle away with them 
in the black limousine. In the majority of cases he was never 
seen again. 

Or, about midnight, a military truck thundered to a stop 
before a residence and the half-dressed captive, dragged from 
his bed, was hustled therein with a shivering group of others, 
to be trundled away—few knew whither. Sometimes the ab¬ 
ducted one returned, or was found days later wandering aim¬ 
lessly in the stark streets reasonless and babbling an incoher¬ 
ence which set at naught all questioning. 

Sometimes, too, the relatives of the missing were informed 
of imprisonment. Also that the prisoner would be released 
only upon the production of this or that information—infor¬ 
mation which ignorance prevented the distracted relatives 
from furnishing. Or the offer arrived to exchange for the 
desired intelligence—the captive’s body. 

Gradually a certain house on the Gorochavaya street came 
to be avoided. One of many low plaster structures it was, 
forbidding in appearance with its shuttered windows, and 
more so late at night when much armed going in and coming 
out, posting of guards, and dull glints of light had been seen 
behind the heavy shutters. Other sections of the city har¬ 
boured other such houses which were shunned by the populace 
to the extent of crossing the street when passing by in day¬ 
light and refusal even to approach by night. 

One such headquarters of mystery had been a medical 
school. It occupied a corner, the structure being U-shaped, 
with a high wall enclosing the otherwise open and rear side 
of the square. An entrance to the courtyard pierced the 
front and another opened on the side-street. A large two- 
storey operating and lecture room comprised nearly all of one 


FURY 263 

wing—a room with three sloping sides serried with seats from 
which all eyes could focus on the table in the centre. The 
other wing contained many narrow rooms once used for resi¬ 
dent students, but now supposedly empty, although tales had 
been told of moving strips of terrified or hopeless faces seen 
behind the bolted shutters. By day this building was, like 
many others in the city, empty, its shutters and courtyard 
doors drawn and bolted, and about it was the grim, almost 
despairing patience which has enveloped so many public and 
semi-public structures after their close during the Revolution 
in March. But at night Red Guards patrolled before the en¬ 
trance, motor trucks and black limousines rolled through its 
gates, and from the courtyard where a dozen trucks stood 
arose the reverberating roar of unmuffled engines. Often 
from afar, if the wind were just right and if one dared stop 
to listen in the dark streets, one could hear the sharp crack of 
rifle-shots punctuating the sullen thunder from the courtyard 
of this strangely utilised building. A venturesome boy, who 
had somehow seen inside the courtyard on two occasions, told 
of a long trench dug along the rear wall, of circular bullet- 
bites into the plaster and brick of it, of brown stains which 
seemed to multiply along its once white surface, and of the 
increasing length of the filled-in part of the long trench. 

For all this strange activity but one explanation circulated. 
It was whispered through almost closed lips, to the accom¬ 
paniment of signs for silence and apprehensive glances from 
side to side. “Do you not know, then? It is The Commis¬ 
sion for Combating Counter-Revolution, the Chrezvechainaya, 
the Cheka. It has absolute, irrevocable power over every¬ 
thing—everyone. To let its secret members hear you breathe 
its name is to include you on its lists.” 


Y 

An irresistible impulse drew David to the cathedral. 
Impending darkness made him hurry. It was not pleasant 


264 WINE OF FURY 

to be on the streets after dark. Life and gaiety had long since 
deserted them. Shortage of fuel closed many theatres; lack 
of food—it had become more than a shortage—closed the 
cafes; and absence of police protection of any kind virtually 
cleared the streets with the fall of darkness. Night became 
a long reign of terror which extended further into the light 
of each day, pointing with terrible prophecy to the time when 
anarchy should reign uninterrupted. 

The mass of the cathedral loomed up in the haze. Re* 
cently he had heard of the Red Guards breaking into a 
church; they had looted it of its precious stone and metal 
ornaments, had killed one of the protesting priests, and had 
thrown the body, stripped of its robes, into a canal. He won¬ 
dered if the rich interior of the cathedral had endured unde¬ 
spoiled. 

He entered through the small rear door where a million 
feet had worn hollows in the marble threshold. A dispiriting 
lifelessness enveloped him as he crossed into the silent dark¬ 
ness of the vast structure. No beggars bowed and mumbled 
at the entry, and inside no attendant presided at the stand to 
take his kopecks in exchange for a taper to be placed alight 
before an ikon. 

As he skirted the towering walls and the tremendous piL 
lars with their bases of brass, the scrape of no footsteps other 
than his own came to his straining ears; no pulsing voiced 
chords floated from the invisible and mysterious depths be¬ 
hind the massive altar gates of gold; no humbled worshippers 
bowed before the multitude of shrines and ikons; nor did any 
flaming taper enshroud these ikons in its wavering veil of 
bluish smoke. Ineffable loneliness reigned, emphasised by 
the immensity of the structure, its towering columns, its 
lengthy and grimy windows and its great arches lost in the 
gloom. Far up under the dome, where he could just make 
them out, the cloud-flying figures of the mural decorations 
seemed to be hurrying through the dusk away from this most 
dismal of human desecrations—a deserted shrine. Had they 


FURY 265 

too seen that the jewel-encrusted ikons, the gold and silver 
robes of the priests, the gorgeous banners, the processions 
and the highly organised ceremonies had but led the naive 
worshippers to mistake the symbols for the idea, the idols 
for the spirit; and now that this visual religion had been 
found wanting, were they too fleeing the hollow building, its 
scenery and trappings and the jewelled idols no longer the 
objects of adoration, but of avarice? 

Alone in this immense emptiness, the strangeness of his 
position enveloped him. A stranger in a strange land, im¬ 
mersed in strange ideas, involved in strange events. Strange 
convolutions of circumstance which had brought him thou¬ 
sands of miles from home to involve him and his work with 
these people. With Naritza whom he feared and Radkin 
whom he opposed; with Anna and Alexei whom he smiled up¬ 
on; with the housemaid Masha and the soldier Foma Ivano- 
vitch whom he had met on three occasions before and during 
the Revolution; with the Countess who had proved her 
friendship and with Natalie whom he loved; and finally with 
the new, heretofore unknown self being slowly moulded by 
the dispassionate course of events. 

His gaze rested on the spot across the transept where he 
had first seen Natalie, and had he been in an introspective 
mood he would have understood that a vague, unrealised hope 
that he would meet her again face to face had led him to the 
cathedral. There she had stood beside the great pillar, white 
against its brown granite, the soldier she supported, in shat¬ 
tered contrast to its proud and mighty symmetry. He saw 
again her smile at his hesitation to take the candle from the 
soldier’s groping hand and heard again the simple music of 
her voice amid the complicated harmonies of the service as 
she requested him to pass the offering along. 

He caught himself in the act of crossing to the pillar. He 
shook his head. Of course she was not there. A wave of 
disappointment broke over him. Where was she? When, 
where, would he see her again? 


266 WINE OF FURY 

Not since that regretful evening in the hospital months 
ago had they spoken, and not since the day her carriage had 
passed him on the way to her house had he seen her. 

Before this last incident the rush of events and his work 
had kept him from her; after it and his conclusion therefrom 
that she had seen him and driven on as though she had not, 
pride prevented him from going to her again. 

He loved her. He was more certain than ever of that. It 
made the situation more difficult. He felt that he could not 
go to her, and he knew that he could not expect her to come 
to him. Hence his hope for a chance meeting in the con¬ 
fusion of which they might surmount all reasoning. 

But no such chance meeting occurred; and, as is often the 
way with the pragmatic, his intellectual detachment resulting 
only in futility, he felt himself dismally alone. The loneli¬ 
ness of the cathedral became the loneliness of his spirit. 

He went out to the hazy dusk and turned back towards the 
office and his impersonal responsibilities. 


VI 

Throughout the walk back to his office the contrast of the 
streets with his recollection of them during the winter of his 
arrival forced itself upon David. 

Then, before the Revolution, when winter came, the city 
assumed a certain clean, chaste beauty. Forces of sweepers 
and shovellers kept the thoroughfares level and smooth with 
hard-packed snow, piling the new fall up at the roadside and 
eventually dumping it into the river or the canals. Despite 
the depressing mists, an air of action and gaiety had then 
pervaded, and the streets were busy with the demands of mil¬ 
itary transport and of the operas, theatres and cafes which 
called to those who would enjoy. 

This in which he now moved was a different Petrograd. 
The roadways were raised high above their natural level with 
ice and snow, so that the tram tracks were but deep grooves 


FURY 267 

and the sidewalks were in many places impassable because o£ 
mounds of ice. A dirty, sullen Petrograd, its dark streets 
lined with closed or feebly lighted shops—some having 
boarded-up doors and windows in testimony to the visits of 
marauding bands. 

Not far from the Winter Palace he noticed a crowd of sol¬ 
diers, workmen and housemaids gathered about a corner and 
he strolled up to see what new drama of the streets had drawn 
them together. 

Between the double row of amused spectators a group of 
men and women were hard at work with shovels and long- 
handled ice-picks clearing the frozen tram tracks and level¬ 
ling the surface of the thoroughfares. There were men to 
whom former prosperity had given fine clothes and bearing; 
and women to whom it had given leisure as well as rich furs 
and fine feathers. An incongruous sight they presented, 
straining with the heavy implements and goaded to increased 
effort by the kicks and brandished bayonets of the Red Guards 
who presided over their labours. 

David stiffened with surprise. One of the group, her dis¬ 
tinguishing sable coat spattered with snow, her dainty hands 
struggling with a heavy shovel, her thin lips compressed to 
prevent the escape of even one of the exclamations of pain 
which must have beat at them, was the Princess Dukharina, 
Natalie’s widowed stepmother. 

His first impulse was to break through the jeering crowd, 
snatch the shovel from her hands and defend her against what 
might follow. A glance at the burly guards labelled this as 
folly. His next thought was to hasten to the Soviet head¬ 
quarters, make himself and his position known, and lodge a 
protest. Realisation that anything so formal would be lost 
in the confusion led him to cast about for other ideas. “The 
only thing to do,” he thought as he turned away, “is to use 
influence. Protest to someone in power. Radkin. He is the 
man.” 

If he occupied an important post in the Bolshevik Govern¬ 
ment he could probably be found at the Government head- 


268 WINE OF FURY 

quarters, at Smolney Institute, the former girls’ school, up 
and round the bend in the river and not far from the Duma, 
which had been taken over by the new powers that were. 

Signalling an isvotschik and clambering in, David gave 
his directions and was off, the tiny sleigh bumping over the 
rough streets like a rowboat at sea. 

Well on the way down the Shpalernaya street he began to 
reflect upon the unnatural impetuousness of his action. 
“Why do I do this?” he asked himself. “I have never cared 
for the Princess Dukharina. Is it because I do not like to 
see anyone in trouble who is associated with Natalie?” 

He realised, too, that now, having won out, Radkin might 
not care to see him. So much had happened that towards 
Radkin he felt himself a stranger. There recurred the old 
impression of distance, as though they had talked to each 
other across an abyss between two worlds; so far apart, in¬ 
terested in such divergent problems that they could speak 
frankly with little chance of arousing enmity. No enmity, 
David felt, in spite of what he had done to Radkin; but he 
felt, in addition, that there was no particular friendship 
either; that were he to be involved in catastrophe, Radkin could 
and would perhaps stand by and contemplate it unfeelingly. 
“Yet,” he thought, “he did send me that note of warning about 
the gold. I must thank him for that.” 

As they approached the Institute buildings he noticed the 
warships anchored in the freezing river before them, the sol¬ 
dier guards and their strategically placed machine-guns about 
the headquarters, and the general atmosphere of tense activity 
which seemed to permeate the district. 

He was scrutinised keenly by some of the guards at the en¬ 
trance but was not challenged. In the entry hall a black- 
tuniced little man with long hair and thick glasses confronted 
him. “Mr. Radkin,” stated David; “I wish to see him.” 

“Mr. Radkin?” queried this individual, with an air of hav¬ 
ing been injured by David’s flat English accent. “No, not 
Mr. Radkin; Comrade Radkin, you mean. Commissar Rad¬ 
kin.” 


FURY 269 

“Yes, of course,” corrected David, “Comrade Radkin.” 

The dingy hallway bustled with its goings and comings of 
innumerable newly created officials, with clerks male and fe¬ 
male—most of the latter masculine in appearance—and with 
soldiers. All hurried about, papers in hand, with an air of 
officious importance. The little man in the powerful glasses 
stopped one of these important people near the stairway and 
after exchanging a few words signalled to David to follow. 

David and his impromptu guide mounted the teeming stairs 
and turned down a short corridor. At its end his companion 
opened a door, looked into the room beyond and shouted: 
“Comrade Radkin, someone to see you.” This done, he cas¬ 
ually resumed his way. 

David entered the room. It was bare save for a tall stove 
in one corner, a table bearing a typewriter and a litter of 
papers, a few chairs and a large plain table at which sat Rad¬ 
kin. 

He rose to his feet as David entered. “Ah,” he said, “it is 
you. It is interesting to see you again. You have been 
well?” 

“Yes,” replied David, extending his hand; “quite. And 
you? You look tired.” 

Radkin shook the extended hand. It was for the first time, 
David recalled, since the evening before the first revolution so 
long, long ago, at the Dukharins’, when his words had de¬ 
livered the man before him into the hands of the police. 
Since then Radkin had seemed far removed from him and his 
affairs—as far away as a man living in another world could 
be. 

“Yes,” added Radkin, moving one of the room’s cheap, 
straight chairs up to his table for David, “I am tired. Very 
tired. I have had much to do.” 

“But having won out, I should think you could take a rest.” 

“Ah . . . no. For some of us it is much like your bank¬ 
ing. The more successful we are the harder we have to work.” 

“That makes me think. I wish to thank you for your note 
of warning about the gold in my office.” 


270 WINE OF FURY 

Radkin turned his head deliberately. “Yes,” he replied, 
with a nod; “there might have been trouble.” 

“It was good of you to think of me in the excitement of 
the time,” added David, and the contrast of his own selfish¬ 
ness with Radkin’s generosity emphasised by this thought em¬ 
barrassed him. 

“The gold is yours, then?” queried Radkin casually. 

His meaning suddenly became clear. He had known that 
indirectly the gold belonged to Natalie Dukharin. He had 
wished to protect it for her. He had evidently not forgotten 
the time when, discovered talking to the soldiers in one of 
the rear rooms of the unrenovated bank building, Natalie had 
prevented David from calling in the police. David realised 
that he had not been considered in the man’s action, and with 
the man in his present position the circumstances which had 
brought about their estrangement were all the more re¬ 
grettable. 

“No,” he hastened to reply, “it is not mine. But the re¬ 
sponsibility for it is mine. I think very highly of that.” 

Had Radkin made some such reply as “You should” it 
would have indicated, David thought, a certain resentment to¬ 
wards him, a resentment which he had been looking for ever 
since that fatal pre-Revolution night. But he did not. David 
felt that the man had no such positive feeling towards him. 
While their respective interests carried them along independ¬ 
ently of each other, Radkin’s attitude seemed to be of complete 
indifference. David wondered what it would be if their in¬ 
terests should cross or conflict. Somehow or other it was not 
a pleasant consideration. 

“Speaking of the gold,” he added, “what should I do with 
it?” 

“Leave it where it is, I should say,” came the reply. 

“Do you consider it safe there?” 

“As safe there as anywhere else.” 

“And by that you mean-” David stopped, waiting for 

Radkin to complete his sentence. He did not. He seemed 
to oppose the suggestion that he should do so. 


FURY 271 

As usual, the sense of opposition aroused in David the urge 
to dominance and he grew more bold. He resolved to break 
the silence which had followed his question, a silence during 
which Radkin had been gazing out of the window towards the 
white Neva and the immobile gunboats. 

“I have just witnessed the practical operation of your Gov¬ 
ernment’s decree that the aristocrats and the bourgeoisie must 
work,” he said. 

“Yes?” queried Radkin, turning towards him, his white face 
with its white forehead laced with blue veins and its stiff, 
black, pointed beard. His gaze seemed more concentrated, 
more intense than ever. 

“Yes, I have seen it,” repeated David, “and it is a disgrace. 
The Princess Dukharina forced to shovel the streets while 
jeering soldiers and housemaids look on. Can’t you have her 
name scratched from the lists and not persecute her further?” 

“If you ask, I’ll try. I can make no promises. I must 
have a reason for asking it. What would you suggest? The 
work must be done.” 

“Yes, and there are plenty of people to do it. The streets 
are crowded with loafers, with idle soldiers who do nothing 
and have done nothing for the past year save eat, drink, sleep 
and steal. Ten of them from the group of spectators could 
do the work in half the time and do it much better.” 

“You forget,” interposed Radkin, leaning an elbow on the 
desk and regarding David fixedly, “that those you call spec¬ 
tators have worked. The soldiers and maids have been will¬ 
ing to risk their lives or have worked hard in Russia. They 
are entitled to be spectators for a change.” 

“If these others had not worked before there would be some 
logic in that,” countered David. “I suppose, from the point 
of view of the labourer and moujik, there is a keen sense of 
ultimate justice at the sight of these people doing manual la¬ 
bour, based as it is upon the supposition that they have never 
worked before. But many of these people who are now suf¬ 
fering most from the antics of the Bolsheviks have worked 
hard all their lives, if not with their hands with their brains; 


272 WINE OF FURY 

and now as they have saved enough as a result of that labour 
it is hardly just to deprive them of it.” 

“The Princess Dukharina has never worked. But outside 
of that, did I hear you say ‘just’? Are you appealing to 
justice for these people, the nobility of Russia? Upon them 
and their forefathers lies the guilt for the age-long neglect 
and oppression of the great majority of the Russian popula¬ 
tion. They had centuries of time and uncountable wealth to 
devote to the education and the uplift of the people. They 
neglected to use these vast resources to such an end. Rather, 
they used them for their own pleasure, even to put down 
every attempt of the masses to crawl up out of the darkness. 
Therefore, viewed in the broad sense of human progress, in 
the cold light of history, these people have had their oppor¬ 
tunity and have failed, and it seems that there should be little 
complaint if they are forced to assist others who will try to 
do what they neglected. I can tell you, Mr. Rand, that if 
nothing more than being compelled to work in the streets for 
a few hours a day happens to them they will be fortunate. 
Bolshevism was inevitable in Russia because it is the one 
theory of government which has been practised upon the 
people for centuries; it is not new; the tyranny of a minority 
has always been for them. Government was the iron club 
and the whip and it is only reasonable to expect that when 
the governmental privilege fell into the new hands they should 
practise what they had been taught. Thus we may see them 
grinding the bourgeoisie and the nobility out of Russian life 
for ever, confiscating their wealth, assuming control of their 
industries, taking over their lands, and doing away with those 
who resist or object. It would be-” 

He lowered his face to his hands as though not wishing to 
witness visions which his pause might have evoked. 

Slowly he looked up again, turning his face towards the 
dim light of the window. “It must not be. I know only too 
well from experience that hate breeds nothing but hate. 
There has been too much of it. Too much.” 

Another pause during which the muffled noises of many 


FURY 273 

people moving about the building came to David’s ears. The 
distant rattle of a typewriter competed for his attention with 
the still more distant rattle of a machine-gun. 

“Presented thus,” resumed Radkin, turning to David, “can’t 
you see that the comparatively conservative among us need 
help?” 

David said nothing. 

“In the conduct of your business,” suddenly resumed Rad¬ 
kin, “are you for us or against us?” 

“I am neutral. I cannot mix in politics.” 

“Sometimes people are drawn into them by circumstances. 
If this happened to you, which side would you support?” 

“I cannot say. I could not say until the situation arose. 
I would have to study all the circumstances.” 

Radkin questioned no more. In the silence which followed, 
David wondered what the man meant in speaking as he did. 
He waited for him to continue. 

But the conversation seemed to have come to an end. 
David rose. “I must hurry,” he said. “I shall see you 
again.” 

“Yes,” replied Radkin; “again. Soon, perhaps.” 

His tone added another to the succession of questions which 
marched through David’s orderly mind as he made his way 
from the building down the gloomy streets towards his lonely 
home. “What does he mean by that? Why did he question 
me so? Why should I mix in their politics? Impossible. 
He must know that. Why, then, did he ask? ... I wonder.” 


VII 

In the gathering storm of events the Dukharin household 
was like a boat without an anchor. Right or wrong, the 
booming dogmatism of the General had been something to 
cling to in hours of stress. The anchor of his decision, cast 
overboard to the accompaniment of his definite statements and 
the occasional thump of his fist upon whatever article of 


274 WINE OF FURY 

furniture happened to be convenient, had held the family 

together. 

Now, with the avalanche of his wrath no longer to be con¬ 
sidered, the cross-play of desires, hopes and fears precipitated 
into the household by the encompassing events completely 
dispersed its home-like atmosphere. 

The morale of the servants was shattered. Quarrels arose 
between the young and the old, between the new and the ex¬ 
perienced, chiefly over who should direct the efforts of the 
others in the absence of even the little attention the Princess 
had been accustomed to give the household affairs and the 
inability of Natalie Mikhailovna to run both the hospital and 
the house. The servants came and went as they pleased. 
The housework was done but intermittently—a whole month 
passed without the house being cleaned—and meals were 
served whenever the cooks saw fit to prepare them, which, oc¬ 
casionally, was not at all. Such omissions were excused on 
the grounds of its being impossible to obtain food, but there 
always seemed to be supplies to feed the soldiers who loitered 
about the kitchen. Some of these, when it was suggested by 
the Princess that they make some effort to pay for their en¬ 
forced keep by clearing away the mounds of ice and snow 
which rendered the street and sidewalk before the house al¬ 
most impassable, replied with the suggestion that the Princess 
do it herself. 

It was the worst reply that could possibly have been made. 
She had not forgotten or forgiven her forced labour in the 
streets. She of course knew nothing of David Rand’s inter¬ 
vention in her behalf and she feared every day that she would 
be summoned to work again. “How those soldiers and house¬ 
maids laughed and jeered!” she would exclaim, clenching her 
soft fists in anger. “I would kill myself before I would sub¬ 
mit to it again.” But in spite of her threats she knew very 
well that she would not kill herself, and therefore she had 
but one interest in the turbulent affairs about her—to get 
away from them. The General had left some of his secur¬ 
ities in London and upon these she intended to live “until 


FURY 275 

the Bolshevik villains are wiped out, every one of them.” 
How to get to London she did not know. It was reported to 
be impossible to leave the city without a Bolshevik permit, 
and obviously, as she said, “those they wish to persecute they 
will not let go. What shall I do? Natasha, can’t you do 
something?" 

Natalie tried her best, but with the many departments of 
the clumsy Soviet government as yet unorganised and unco¬ 
ordinated, the influence which she, through her hospital work, 
could bring to bear upon those who gave permits to leave 
the city was slow in reaching responsible persons. 

She was not the same sure, quiet worker. The swirling 
waters of events wore with disintegrating insistence at the 
foundations of her calm. The increasing demands of the 
hospital for her presence and the work of her two hands, 
the multiplying requests, which amounted to orders, of the 
Soviet authorities that she spend part of her time in Moscow 
assisting in the organisation of another hospital school there, 
the worry over the state of affairs in the big house on the 
Kamenno-Ostroffski, and the calls for aid of one kind or 
another made upon her by her many friends—all these re¬ 
duced almost to nothing the time she had to herself for con¬ 
templation of things about her and the mental allocation to 
them of their places of relative importance. 

Paramount in the confusion of thoughts through which she 
laboured more or less subconsciously day by day was the 
thought of David Rand. She had not seen him since the 
episode in the waiting-room of the hospital that evening of 
the Bolshevik outbreak. She had expected him to come to 
her after the excitement of the times had subsided, but he 
had not. She had even waited at the hospital and at home 
for him or for a word from him, but neither he nor the mes¬ 
sage had come. The assurance she felt of his love was too 
well founded in the sense of confidence and trust which was 
so much of her strength of spirit to permit the conclusion 
that he had ceased to care for her, and in consequence she 
thought she sensed a chance conspiracy of circumstance which 


276 WINEOFFURY 

might lead them irrevocably apart. She wondered whether 
or not she had better go herself to see him, despite the femin¬ 
ine instinct which warned her against such a course, but on 
the two occasions when she had wavered in this matter it 
had been settled decisively by her being called to Moscow. 

In addition to all this, her sister Anna perplexed and 
saddened her. Even since the child’s last break with Alexei, 
following his appearance with Naritza at the Countess Borov¬ 
skaya’s week-end party, she had quite evidently not known a 
happy moment. Whole days she spent in her room sitting 
alone by the window, and flurries of finely torn note-paper 
in the bottom of the waste-basket testified to hours spent in 
fruitless composition of what must have been notes to her 
boy lover. 

Twice he had come to the house to see her. Twice, in 
spite of the pleas of her sister that he be forgiven, she had 
refused to meet him. And twice as Alexei walked sadly away 
had she run to her room to watch him from the window and 
fall in tears on the bed as he disappeared from view. Did 
no one understand that even though she had refused to see 
him she had wanted him to insist upon admittance, to force 
his way to her and hold her tightly while he talked to her? 
No, no one seemed to understand that. 

Not the Princess, her stepmother, who had regarded it as 
something of a triumph to have precipitated the estrangement. 
“They are but children,” she said; “it is terrible to them now, 
but they will both get over it and laugh about it later on.” 
Not Natalie, who, driven to the limit of nervous tension by 
the demands of her own affairs, had not the time to do more 
than counsel her younger sister. And least of all Alexei, 
who, with confidence in himself weakened by the ease with 
which Naritza had led him to break his intentions and 
promises, felt his hope giving way to conviction of his 
worthlessness as he left the house. A year ago he would 
have looked back and read the wishes in the pale face pressed 
to the window. 

So she took refuge in the thought of her father and how 


FURY 277 

he would not have permitted her to be unhappy for long. 
He would have done something. Tears welled from her eyes 
as she thought of his last few days of life, and the day 
following these sad reflections she appeared downstairs again 
wearing one of the mourning dresses which had been made 
for her at the time. 

The Princess’ criticisms and Natalie’s requests had little ef¬ 
fect upon her and she continued to wear the black which 
emphasised the whiteness of her skin and dulled the piquancy 
of her features. No more the dancing steps on the intricately 
patterned floors and no more the bird-like note of her happy 
songs. 

Natalie began to detect serious possibilities in the situa¬ 
tion. “You love Alosha,” she said to her young sister one 
evening; “why don’t you let me tell him to come here again?” 

“No,” came the answer. 

“You love him.” 

“Yes—and I hate him too.” 

“But you cannot have both—your love and your hate. 
You must choose one or the other.” 

To this Anna made no reply. 

Meanwhile the family of Alexei Nikolaievitch was having 
its troubles. Illness drew Baron Danilov to his bed, and in¬ 
formation connected with the family affairs had to be kept 
from him. The peasants on one of the southern estates went 
on the rampage, murdered the manager, pillaged the house 
and divided the land amongst themselves. Someone had to 
hurry down and see what could be done about it. Alexei, 
seeking relief from the futility which encompassed his ef¬ 
forts to make up with Anna, welcomed the opportunity to get 
away from Petrograd. 

Hearing of it, Natalie hastened to make a last appeal to her 
unhappy sister. “He is going soon, Aneta,” she said. “He 
may not come back for a long time, and much can happen. 
You must see him before he goes. Write him a note, now, 
you must, and tell him to come here. These are not times 
to permit pride to stand in the way of happiness. Events 


278 WINE OF FURY 

are too swift and remorseless. They are obstacles enough. 
People should take their happiness where they can, before 
it is snatched away from them.” 

After much persuasion, during which Anna wanted very 
much to yield, but still wanted to maintain the semblance of 
pride, and after many trials and errors, the note was written. 
Natalie, seeming to derive much encouragement and pleasure 
from it, kissed her sister happily and mailed it for her. 

It was delivered at the Danilov house in the morning. 
Alexei had left for the south the previous evening. 


VIII 

One afternoon, on the Sadovaya Prospekt, David almost 
brushed shoulders with the Countess Borovskaya. A snug fur 
turban capped her clear, animated face. A tight-fitting coat 
banded with thick fur at the collar, wrists and flaring rim 
emphasised her trim figure and swirled with the graceful 
movement of a dancer’s skirt as she walked. 

“You in Petrograd!” he exclaimed after their greeting. “I 
was beginning to think that you had left for good.” 

“It’s my farewell appearance,” she replied, with an attempt 
at her old animation, which, however, failed to conceal the 
sadness in her voice. “I was coming to see you. Is there a 
place where we can have a talk until my train leaves? I’m 
going back to the villa to-night. I know the Hotel Astoria’s 
been requisitioned by the Bolsheviks. What about the 
Europe?” 

“Pm not sure, but we’ll try it.” They chatted casually as 
they walked down the Nevsky to the hotel, where before the 
Revolution they had often met at dinner and at tea. 

The coffee-room was nearly deserted. A few tables away 
sat a group of four young men, two in civilian clothes, 
which could not hide their military air, and the other two 
in the uniforms of under-officers. They were conversing ani- 


FURY 279 

matedly over their coffee. It was evidently a reunion of war¬ 
time friends. 

David’s glance moved about the room. The tables and 
chairs were in disarray; used dishes littered some of the 
tables, and dirt streaked and splotched the tiled floor. No 
music. No pleasant hum of conversation punctuated by 
laughter. No colourful uniforms and no striking costumes. 
A general atmosphere of neglect pervaded. 

They ordered hot chocolate and after a long delay had the 
cups brought by a shuffling waiter who spilled the brown 
liquid over the saucers and on to the table. It was sugarless, 
bitter stuff made of gritty chocolate and water. Served with 
it were two thin slices of soggy black bread. The Countess 
made a wry face as she tasted the combination. Somehow 
she did not seem to be in a conversational mood, and, like 
David, she reflected upon the contrast of the place with its 
former animation. 

Guttural voices and the grit of hobbed boots came from 
the doorway. Four Red Guards, three of them soldiers and 
the other, the leader, a workman, a bit unsteady on his feet, 
made their way through the clutter of furniture to the table 
where sat the group of four young men. With ready rifles 
the soldiers confronted the group. Angry words followed as 
one by one the young men rose and were searched by the 
tipsy workman. The last young man, one of those in uniform, 
demurred when ordered to stand up. The workman seized 
him by the shoulder, only to be thrown off his balance by 
the officer’s forcible removal of the dirty hand and confronted 
by him standing upright and tense. The workman shouted in 
anger and immediately three bayonets pricked at the young 
man’s tunic. The search went on and with an air of triumph 
the workman exhibited a revolver taken from his prisoner’s 
pocket. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Look, comrades, a revolver. 
A concealed weapon. It is a violation of the Soviet decree. 
It is counter-revolution. A plot. Come, you. You shall 
answer for this to the Commissar. The Cheka may want to 


280 WINE OF FURY 

know about this. You are arrested. Come on!” And de¬ 
spite the expostulations of his three friends the angry and 
humiliated young officer was led away between the bayonets 
of the stolid guards. 

“It will go hard with him,” remarked David. 

“Yes,” agreed the Countess; “that workman was looking 
for trouble. Poor boy.” She relapsed into contemplation of 
what might happen to the young officer. 

David saw that in these surroundings they would not make 
much progress with the many things he wanted to talk over 
with his friend. 

Suddenly the Countess shrugged her shoulders in her rest¬ 
less way. “I can’t bear it here,” she said. “Can’t we go 
somewhere else . . . where the . . . change . . . isn’t so 
ghastly?” 

“My apartment, if you don’t mind,” suggested David, sig¬ 
nalling for the bill. “It’s quiet there and comfortable and 
there ought to be eatable things on hand.” 

They left the hotel and walked out to the Nevsky, looking 
about them for an isvotschik. “Isvotschik!” shouted David 
at the sleigh which jingled by them. The driver did not hear. 

“That’s the only one,” he remarked, peering up and down 
the thoroughfare. “We’d better take a tram.” 

They clambered aboard the next one and were fortunate 
in getting seats near the entrance. The usual motley collec¬ 
tion of soldiers and housemaids, with an occasional student 
or black-coated bourgeois, filled the car, and as it clattered off 
the usual altercation on the subject of closing the doors broke 
out. Despite the foul air, the protests were all against the 
door being left open an inch. 

Finding it impossible to converse, David and the Countess 
relapsed into mute contemplation. A huge soldier, his face 
almost obscured by his matted hair and beard, elbowed into 
the aisle and stood lurching before the Countess. Vodka ex¬ 
aggerated the effect upon him of the car’s motion, and more 
than once David set himself to prevent the collapse of this 
human animal into his companion’s lap. 


FURY 281 

The soldier squinted at the immaculate Countess, his thick 
lips twitching in an evil leer. “I’ll give you twenty-five rou¬ 
bles for the coat,” he mumbled, bending towards her. She 
disregarded the shaggy face and edged away as far as possible. 

David did not know what to say. He slipped his hand 
into his overcoat pocket and gripped the automatic pistol he 
always carried, despite the fact that its discovery by the Reds 
would draw imprisonment. The soldier repeated his offer. 

“Thanks,” answered the Countess coolly; “it is not for sale. 
It’s the only one I have, and I need it.” 

“Ah-h-h-h!” growled the soldier, “I am a Bolshevik. If 
I want the coat I’ll”—he motioned with his gnarled hands 
as though choking an imaginary victim—“and I’ll take the 
coat.” 

The shrill voice of the conductress interrupted. She was 
solidly built but of no great stature and David had not seen 
her as she shoved her way through the crowd. “No, you 
won’t you big, lazy tramp,” she shouted to the surprised 
soldier; “not on my tram. You’ve got no business on here 
anyway. You’ve paid no fare. Get off. Go on. No argu¬ 
ment. Off you go. Insulting the passengers!” And as 
though pushing and shoving a huge bundle she bustled the 
dazed soldier to the platform, shouting invectives at him the 
while. Then, without pulling the bell to slow down, she 
gave a mighty shove which sent him hurtling into the icy 
street, and leaning far out as the tram rumbled on she 
taunted him with: “Yah! a great soldier you are. You 
never left Petrograd, you didn’t. You did all your fighting 
in the barracks. The women fought better than you, you 
lazy loafer!” 

The interest which this incident had awakened within the 
tram subsided. They rattled on as before. At one stop a 
crowd gathered. From it a soldier boarded the tram. 
To the questions addressed him he replied: “It was a fel¬ 
low selling bread for five roubles a pound. He raised his 
price to eight and someone shot him. The people were argu¬ 
ing whether to leave the body there or throw it into the 


282 WINE OF FURY 

canal.” The tram moved on. The passengers resumed their 

stolid staring through the windows. 

The frame opposite David enclosed an ever-changing pic¬ 
ture of street activity. He regarded it abstractedly: the road¬ 
way, burdened with dirty snow and ice, like waves instantly 
frozen solid; the battered trams which crawled like struggling, 
antediluvian monsters; the low, plaster-covered buildings 
faded and streaked for want of paint and spattered with 
bullet-holes; and the hopeless throngs on the sidewalk, ragged, 
gaunt, worried, with the look of the fugitive imprinted forcibly 
upon each face, hurrying along as though driven before a 
storm of unknown, unseen forces; people with rude bundles, 
some with hard-won loaves of bread under their arms, and 
others with neither bundles nor bread—only the hunger for it; 
thin, aged children forced to labour before their time; crip¬ 
pled soldiers turned out of hospitals to beg^ in attitudes of 
despair; all more like a conception of Dore than reality— 
a panorama of les miserables. 

Suddenly, in the middle of a block, the tram stopped. The 
motorman experimented with his levers. Without result. 
The bustling conductress made her way back and forth be¬ 
tween her post at the rear and the motorman’s seat, chatter¬ 
ing incessantly. Finally she stood in the doorway and 
shouted: “All out! We go no farther. The tram is broken. 
All out immediately! You there too,” she added, shaking a 
soldier who had fallen asleep in a corner. 

As David assisted the Countess to alight he heard the 
motorman say to the conductress: “We’ll leave this thing 
here and go have some tea. How much money have you 
got?” And as they walked away to seek other means of 
transportation he saw them leave the tram, the conductress 
engaged the while in counting the contents of her fare-purse. 

An isvotschik stood idle at the corner. “Isvotschik, are you 
busy?” asked David. 

“No,” came the guttural reply. “Where to?” 

David gave the address of his apartment. The driver, look¬ 
ing like a great gnome with his round, flat hat, his long beard 


FURY 283 

and the roll of robes about his body, regarded his prospective 
passenger carefully. “Twenty-five roubles!” he grunted. 

David burst out laughing. 

The Countess’ comment was: “We don’t want to buy your 
horse and sleigh, we only want to ride a short distance in it.” 

“Twenty roubles,” corrected the isvotschik. Meanwhile the 
Countess had signalled to another who came driving up in 
quest of trade. “How much? how much?” cried the first, 
frantic at the possibility of losing a fare to a rival. 

“Five roubles,” stated David. 

“Oh, barin!” cried the driver in despair. “Five roubles!” 
And he launched out into a tale of the hardships of his calling, 
interposed with pleas for “Ten roubles, barin. A little red 
one.” As David and the Countess climbed into the rival 
sleigh he wailed: “Please, please, barin, for five roubles, 
and a most excellent horse I have.” 

But the robes were adjusted and they were off, with his 
shouts in their ears: “His horse is a hundred years old. 
You’ll never get there. Aristocrats! You should all have 
your throats slit!” 

Arriving at the apartment, they said little while the servant 
brought the samovar. “We’ll have to sit in the dark for a 
while,” remarked David. “The electricity doesn’t come on 
until six, and Varvara couldn’t buy any candles yesterday. 
Even they’re gone.” He paused while the tea was passed. 

“So you’re leaving us?” he said, when the Countess leaned 
back comfortably in her chair. 

“Yes . . . for good. The Count and I are going to Lon¬ 
don . . . Paris . . . anywhere. We can’t stay at the Fin¬ 
land place any longer and remain unfrozen. It’s too danger¬ 
ous to come back here. So ... in a few days we’re off.” 

“Pm sorry,” said David, “but ... I think you’re wise. It 
gets worse every day. The food . . . my cook told me this 
morning that during the last three days she’d only been able 
to get three-quarters of a pound of black bread. I don’t see 
how the poor live at all. I’ve heard of famine and already 
some hundreds of cases of typhus have been reported.” 


284 WINE OF FURY 

“Yes,” assented his visitor abstractedly. “Yet, in spite of 
it all, it’s difficult to go . . . when one has had so much here.” 

This tone from the Countess surprised him. He waited 
for her to continue. 

“I came in yesterday to get a few things I wanted to 
take with me,” she resumed. “I wouldn’t let the Count come. 
He’d be certain to get into trouble of some kind; knock down 
a Red Guard, or throw something at a red flag; he’s always 
taken the Revolution as a personal insult, you know. Well, 
I went to the house. The snow on the sidewalk and street in 
front was littered with broken bottles and splotched with wine. 
One of the corner windows gaped open. The silk curtains 
flaunted the smudges of a bloody hand. At the door were two 
carts, and I stood on the opposite corner and watched laugh¬ 
ing soldiers load those carts with the stiff-drunk bodies of 
members of the glorious Red Guard. When they drove away 
I went in . . . the servants . . . gone, the big room where 
you and I used to sit with the cocktail-shaker! One look 
round was enough . . . too much. My beautiful pictures. 
My rugs. Everything. Even my procession of ivory 
elephants on the mantel. The destruction. The filth. Hor¬ 
rible! I couldn’t look in any of the other rooms. I’d rather 
remember my things as I left them.” She stopped and 
looked away, suppressing an insistent, dry cough of emotion. 

“I’m profoundly sorry,” said David, caught by its depth. 
“I’m afraid there are far too many such . . . such . . .” He 
sought for the proper word. 

“Say it,” interjected the Countess, looking up at him with 
a smile. “Incidents, that’s what they are, I suppose, com¬ 
pared to what might happen. I’m really lucky to have lost 
only the house. Material things are the easiest of all to lose. 
There are other things; for instance, love, such as young 
Alexei Danilov and Aneta Dukharina seem to have lost. She 
refuses to see him, and then cries until she falls asleep. If 
he could batter down the door or meet her by chance, it 
would come out all right. But as it is . . . they are proud, 
foolish children.” 


FURY 285 

David though of Natalie. He had not talked with her for 
a period almost as long as the separation of Anna and Alexei. 
The realisation jolted him and he reflected again upon the 
combination of circumstances and emotion which had kept 
them apart. 

“Pride. That is true,” he admitted to himself. “At first 
it was my pride which kept me from going again to Natalie, 
but when we met on the street . . . she turned her head and 
drove straight on . . . that was not my fault.” 

Again he became aware of the Countess’ voice: “I spent 
the night with the Dukharins—that is, with the Princess and 
Anna. Natalie, as you know, is in Moscow working on the 
hospital the Soviet asked her to start there. She is expected 
back soon, though. It’s really pathetic about the Princess. I 
never cared much for her, but I do feel sorry for her. She’s 
the most lonely person in the world. She’d made but few 
friends and, with the General gone, she’s had little compan¬ 
ionship. She has little in common with her stepdaughters. 
They do all they can, of course, but Natalie’s so busy, and 
Anna’s so young. And then, too, she’s had to work in the 
streets. Of all people-” 

“Yes,” interrupted David; “I saw her shovelling snow. It 
was not a pleasant sight. I saw a friend of mine who is one 
of the Commissars—Radkin—about it. Has she been bothered 
more than that one time?” 

“No, I think not. I’m getting her out before it can happen 
again. She’s coming to Finland with me. It’s supposed to 
be impossible to get out of the city and the country without 
a permit from Smolney, but some of my Finnish friends have 
arranged it. She’s staying with us and is going with us to 
London. She has friends there and a little money. She 
tried to get Anna to come too, and so did I, but it was no 
use. She insists on staying on here with Natalie. Or until 
Alexei will bring her out, which I’m certain he’ll do unless 
he runs a-foul of Naritza again.” 

“What’s become of Naritza?” queried David, thinking of 
the dancer’s threatening manner towards him when he had 



286 WINE OF FURY 

last seen her at the Countess’ week-end party. “Have you 
seen her too?” 

“Not to talk with. I wanted to say good-bye to her. I 
went to her apartment. She was not there. The maid told 
me that she spent a good deal of time at the Hotel Astoria 
where some of the Commissars live. I went there. Just 
outside I saw her. She came up in a limousine which, be¬ 
cause of the Red Guard driving it and its insignia, must have 
belonged to a Commissar. She got out and went into the 
hotel. She was not the Naritza I used to know. I could 
scarcely believe it, the change in her. I told you once that 
she was at her best, that she reached the heights artistically 
and socially about four years ago. Since then she has been 
slipping. Within these last few months she seems to have 
gone further than in as many years. I think I said once that 
Naritza went with the political power. Well, you know how 
far down the scale that has gone. When she went past me 
into the hotel I couldn’t make out what was the matter with 
her. I thought at first that she had been drinking. Then, 
when I saw her eyes—she stared right over my head without 
seeing—I thought it was heroin or cocaine or something of the 
sort. It may have been both. She used to dabble with them, 
I remember, before she reached the top. How she has 
changed! Naritza used to be one of the finest dressed women 
in Petrograd. Simplicity was the key-note. No ornaments. 
She abhorred jewellery—that is, to wear—as vulgar. She 
used only the most elusive of perfumes. But when I saw 
her yesterday! Feathers, furs, frills, spangled with jewellery. 
Maybe she has to wear them to please those who’ve given 
them to her. But I could hardly believe my eyes. She 
was not Naritza. She was a travesty of Naritza decked out 
to please an audience that could appreciate only a travesty 
of the real and beautiful. I decided that I didn’t want to 
talk to her after all, and I came away.” The Countess shook 
her head as though the recollection of the meeting repelled 
her. Her glance stopped at the gold clock on the mantel. 
“Is that clock right?” she asked, and as David nodded in 


FURY 287 

reply, she continued: “Well, I have a few minutes more, 
then. Tell me, what are your plans?” 

“I haven’t any fixed plans. If the Bolsheviks remain in 
power, they can’t do much more than they’ve already done. 
If they fall, the chances are that the new regime will treat 
us better. While, if the Germans capture the city, I can turn 
over my property to them against a receipt which they will 
honour after the peace. So in any circumstances I can’t be 
much worse off.” 

“You’re going to stay, then?” 

“Yes, I am. I’ve decided. There have been times when 
I’ve thought it my duty to leave, go to France, and do some¬ 
thing in the war. With the crisis coming and our country 
making such a tremendous effort, I felt that everyone should 
help. But that’s sentiment. Practically, I’m of more use 
here. Moreover, I want to see this thing through. And I’ve 
decided to see it through. I can’t do much more business, 
but I may as well stay and hang on to what I’ve got. I hear 
that private banks are to be abolished and made into branches 
of the State Bank, but I don’t know. Most of them are doing 
nothing. In one of them, one of the largest in the city, and 
in the world for that matter, a sailor sits in one room with 
a heap of books—all the rest of the building is under lock and 
key—sits with a gun across his knee, smoking his cigarettes 
and reading the Pravda. He is the manager and staff of 
the bank. He doesn’t know one book from another. If you 
can make yourself agreeable enough to him to influence him 
to effect a transaction for you, you must select the proper 
books for him and show him how to make the entries. You 
can imagine how much business is being done under these cir¬ 
cumstances.” 

“Have they made any move against you?” 

“No; on the contrary, they have been quite decent to me. 
Of course there is much agitation against us here, and many 
would have us close altogether. I can understand that. The 
Bolshevik’s worst enemy is supposed to be capitalism, what¬ 
ever that is. And we are, according to their point of view, 


288 WINE OF FURY 

the worst kind—foreign capitalists. But there are some sane 
heads in the Soviet ranks and they realise that in the future 
it is inevitable for America and Russia to carry on business 
and that therefore it is advantageous to have a powerful 
American banking institution represented here. I have re¬ 
ceived so much encouragement from them that I may regret 
having sent my assistants out of the city with instructions to 
leave for Vladivostock upon hearing that I, too, have left. I 
took this precaution a few days ago when things looked so bad. 
I may have to call them back. The Bolsheviks have even 
asked me to disregard as far as I can some of the decrees they 
have issued about the validity of stocks and bonds. You 
know,” he added with an air of pride, “I consider it something 
of a triumph to have got them to look at it from that point 
of view.” 

“Yes,” assented the Countess, “it is.” She looked again at 
the clock. “Time’s up!” she exclaimed, rising and buttoning 
her coat. “I dislike to bring what may be our last gossip-fest 
to a close, but I mustn’t miss the one train of the day that 
goes out my way.” 

“But listen,” she added with all her old-time vivacity. 
“Don’t let’s make this the last. I’m not sure just when we 
shall leave Finland for London, not for a week anyway, be¬ 
cause the Princess wants to wait until Natalie comes back and 
comes out to say good-bye. That girl can go anywhere, with 
her record. She is known everywhere. You’re not the only 
one who worships her. But what I started to say was, why 
not come out yourself while she’s there and we’ll have a 
regular farewell-party-” 

“I will,” assented David, so quickly and eagerly that she 
had no time to end her sentence. “I’ll come.” The joy he 
felt at the prospect showed in his words. One thought was 
uppermost in his mind. “It’s just the chance to see her that 
I’ve been looking for.” 

“Splendid!” exclaimed the Countess. “Well, within a 
week, then.” 

“Within a week,” he echoed. “Meanwhile, is there any- 


FURY 289 

thing I can do for you? How about money—in London? 
You know the restrictions I’m under, but I might be able to 
fix it for you.” 

“It’s good of you to offer, but that’s all arranged. No mat¬ 
ter how far the ignorant may triumph over the intelligent 
nowadays, we have it on them in one respect. Foresight. 
You know we nearly had a revolution here in 1905 after the 
war with Japan. Well, when this war began I made the 
Count transfer one hundred thousand pounds to London. It’s 
there. I think we can stagger along on that.” 

He laughed admiringly. “You are ... I can’t say what 
I want to say,” he explained as he accompanied her to the 
door. 

“Thanks; you’re the more expressive for it. Remember, 
now . . . within a week. But if something should prevent, 
you must look us up in London—or Paris—or New York. 
Always at the Ritz. That’s easy to remember. Except in my 
home town, Milwaukee.” 

At the door she turned again to him. “You know,” she 
said, “it will be worth almost all we’ve lost to see the Count 
in Milwaukee society.” And with the amusement this thought 
gave tugging at the sensitive corners of her brave mouth the 
Countess Elena Borovskaya sallied forth from the door and 
Russia and its society, as she had entered it—self-reliant, 
confident, and with zest for life irresistible. 


IX 

About ten o’clock one night when the moon had made a 
break in the low clouds and the snow had temporarily ceased 
to fall, a lone soldier lounged in a doorway on a corner 
opposite the forbidden medical school on the outskirts of the 
city. His position afforded him a view of both the front 
entrance to the building and of the arched gateway to the 
courtyard which opened on the side-street. He seemed to be 
quite unaware of the sinister reputation of his locale, and 


290 WINE OF FURY 

to be regarding the building for no particular reason save 
the curiosity which gleams of light and other signs of human 
activity inside the structure evidently aroused. 

For minutes nothing occurred to disturb the lifeless quiet 
of the street. No pedestrians, no vehicles moved in the fitful 
shadows cast by the cloudy moonlight. 

Finally, with a throaty purr and the crackle of its studded 
tires on the hard snow, a long black limousine rolled up to 
the main entrance of the building across the way. The driver, 
a soldier with a scarlet band of the Red Guards round his 
arm, got out and opened the door for those inside—three 
men in long black coats, with the inevitable Persian lamb 
collars and the fez-like hats of the same fur. All three car¬ 
ried leather portfolios, and after mounting the steps and 
fumbling with the key for a moment or two they entered the 
dark building. 

The chauffeur dimmed the lights of his car and resumed 
his place in front, slouching down in preparation for a long 
stay. A minute later, however, he sat up and after search¬ 
ing his pockets produced a long paper-tubed cigarette. Fur¬ 
ther searching failed to furnish the necessary match, and 
after a muttered curse and a look about the street he clam¬ 
bered out of the car and strode over to the slouching soldier 
in the doorway. “Comrade,” he said after a survey of the 
lounger’s uniform, “have you got a match?” 

There came a mumbled assent, more groping in great¬ 
coat pockets, and then the flare of yellow flame which il¬ 
luminated the broad, flat features of the two men—both hardly 
more than boys. They stood for a moment as though want¬ 
ing to converse but lacking a topic of common interest. 
Finally the lounger spoke. 

“Who are those you drive?” 

“They are Commissars.” 

“So-o-o? And what do they do in that dark building?” 

“You do not know what that building is? What happens 
there?” 

“No. What?” 


291 


FURY 

“The Cheka meets there.” 

“God of mine! I had better be going.” And the lounger, 
straightened by his surprise, made as though to move. 

“No, comrade,” laughed the other, holding him by the 
coat-sleeve, “do not go. They are not likely to want you.” 
And he laughed again as he considered his fellow-soldier’s 
well-worn uniform. “Stay, I expect to wait long, and I’d 
like someone to talk to. What’s your name?” 

“I am called Foma Ivanovitch,” came the reply. 

Meanwhile the courtyard gates had opened and a file of 
trucks, the thunder of their motors muffled, trundled out and 
down the dark street. In addition to the drivers, three or 
four soldiers stood upright in the body of each truck. 

“Ah!” exclaimed the driver, “there they go.” 

“What?” queried Foma Ivanovitch. 

“The trucks. You see them? There will be lots doing to¬ 
night. A big counter-revolutionary plot has been discovered. 
The trucks are going out to bring in the prisoners.” 

“Do the Commissars examine all of them?” 

“No. The Commissars do not usually come at all, and as 
a matter of fact there is only one Commissar there now— 
the others are assistants. But he is to question a few of the 
most important prisoners. Then he’ll go and the rest will be 
turned over to the regular Cheka chief for this district. 
That’s Comrade Vletsky. That’s his car now.” 

Another limousine drew up behind the first. Comrade 
Vletsky in a long officer’s coat stepped out and turned to 
assist a companion. 

“O-o-o-o!” exclaimed the driver of the first car, “there will 
be some fun to-night. That’s Naritza. Comrade Vletsky’s 
brought Naritza with him. You’ve heard of her, the dancer, 
of course. Well, she is one of us now. She’s a great help 
to the Cheka. She knew so many of the aristocrats and 
bourgeoisie under the old regime—how she hates them now— 
and she can think of such ways to punish them. That is, when 
she’s feeling just right. Sometimes she is so angry she can’t 
think of anything—just white with it. She was that way the 


292 WINE OF FURY 

night she killed Professor Oubrassov. He wasn’t such a bad 
man after all. He had discovered a great many new medicines 
and things; but he was against the Soviets. They brought him 
here before the Cheka one night when Comrade Naritza was 
here and she questioned him with some not very nice questions 
about his wife—she was very beautiful—and his children. 
Naritza didn’t like the way he answered. She became very 
angry and just grabbed up a revolver and shot him. The 
Cheka hadn’t meant to do that. Professor Oubrassov could 
have done much good but there it was . . . done. They 
could only chuck him out in the pit in the courtyard with 
the others. Then one night when she and most of the Cheka 
were very drunk she didn’t like the way a former officer in 
the army spoke of his service. Too proudly, she thought. 
So what do you think she had done? You can’t guess. No¬ 
body can think up the things to do that she can. Had his 
clothes taken off and had stripes and shoulder-straps cut in 
his skin . . . and an officer’s belt . . . and even a St. George 
Cross in his chest. Then they put salt in them. Then they 
had him hung in the courtyard. ‘An officer whose uniform 
fits him perfectly,’ was what Naritza said. Yes, things are 
exciting when she’s around.” 

The driver stopped to count other trucks which had begun 
to rumble out of the darkness up to the courtyard gate. Each 
seemed to be loaded with people—men and women, and here 
and there a child—all crowded together and swaying with 
the lurching of the rough conveyance. As each truck passed 
through the arch with a roar of its motor a light from within 
illuminated the faces of its unwilling passengers, and these 
flashed out in the darkness like a vivid frieze of terror. 

“Ah!” exclaimed Foma. “Look at them. They know. It 
is too bad.” 

“Too bad, nothing!” commented his companion contemptu¬ 
ously. “Remember, they are the aristocrats. They brought 
on the war and . . . and . . . well, they have done many bad 
things.” He eyed Foma sharply, and the latter, aware of 


FURY 293 

this scrutiny and of the suspicion his remark had aroused, 
changed the subject quickly. 

“This Naritza,” he questioned, “is she pretty?” 

“Well . . . er . . . ah . • • no. Not exactly. I’ve seen 

others much prettier. But she’s graceful . . . like a cat . • . 

and the men seem to like her. She’s absolutely one of us, 
too. She’s lived with the best, but she puts on no high-and- 
mighty airs. In fact she seems to get more fun than anyone 
else out of the Cheka meetings. She has imagination, that 
woman. And when she’s had too much to drink, as she 

sometimes has when she comes with Vletsky, or when she’s 

had some cocaine, then’s when things go the limit. Perhaps 
they will to-night. Do you want to go in and see?” 

Curiosity was strong in Foma Ivanovitch, but he hesitated. 
“Can I?” he queried dubiously. 

“Certainly,” came the reply. “Anybody can if he knows 
one of the officials. I can get you in any time. Come on.” 

“No-o-o,” demurred Foma. “I can’t to-night. I have a 
date to meet a friend of mine soon.” 

“A-ha,” laughed the other softly. “A lady friend too, I 
bet. Well, go get her. Bring her too. Why not? It’s just 
like a show, only more exciting because it’s real.” 

“No,” persisted Foma Ivanovitch, “not to-night. Some 
other night, maybe.” 

“All right. I can always fix it for you and you can usually 
find me—Ilya Stepanovitch’s my name—at the big garage. 
Any time. And say, if you want to, I can get you into the 
Red Guards assigned to this work. It’s the best job there is 
now. We make lots of money. Look.” He held out his 
hand for Foma to see the glittering rings which decorated 
his calloused fingers. “They are worth thousands and thou¬ 
sands of roubles.” 

“Where did you get them?” queried the awed Foma Ivano¬ 
vitch. 

“Take ’em,” came the laconic reply. “From the prisoners 
. . . and from ... the bodies. You can get some for that 


294 WINEOFFURY 

girl of yours. We all do that. How about it? Want to 
join?” He gestured with the lighted cigarette in his hand 
as though he were magnanimously granting a great favour. 

“No. I’m going away soon. I can’t.” 

The arrival of two more trucks cut short their conversation. 
These were loaded with soldiers. Their bayoneted rifles 
gleamed in the light of the gateway. Foma regarded his 
friend quizzically. 

“The Letts,” came the nonchalant comment. “There are 
going to be executions, I guess. They bring the Letts in to 
do it when there are to be many. The machine-guns are 
likely to get stuck, you know, and the Letts are sure, if not 
so fast.” 

A few moments after the disappearance into the courtyard 
of the Lettish soldiers a third limousine appeared out of the 
darkness, rounded the corner and stopped before the gateway. 
Three soldiers got out. A fourth emerged from the gate and 
the group conversed. Conversation changed to argument and 
argument to invective. The group swelled with the addition 
of new-comers from the courtyard. Shouts and oaths arose 
from it like spark-laden smoke. 

“What’s the matter there, I wonder,” remarked the driver 
of the first limousine. “I’ll go and see,” and he sauntered 
over to the gesticulating group. After a few moments of lis¬ 
tening and of wandering round the group, now and then 
standing on tiptoe better to see those in the centre, he re¬ 
turned. “They were sent out to bring in someone, a Baron 
Danilov or somebody or other, and they found him sick in 
bed. The old lady, the Baroness, made such a fuss when they 
started to drag him out that the soldiers bayoneted both of 
them. They wanted to bring the son, Lieutenant Alexei Niko- 
laievitch, but he’s away. And besides, some say that Naritza 
knows him and wouldn’t let anything happen to him. It’ll 
be a nice surprise for him when he comes back to find ’em 
there in the house, won’t it? Ah! there come my people* 
The fun will begin now.” 


FURY 295 

The front door had opened and the three black-clad in¬ 
dividuals with the three leather portfolios descended to the 
walk. The driver hastened across the street, closed the lim¬ 
ousine door after them, and vanished with them into the dark¬ 
ness, now deeper and more mysterious because of the silent, 
obscuring snow, which had begun to fall like a carefully ar¬ 
ranged shroud. 

Fully twenty minutes passed with no further activity and 
no further sound from the many-windowed building. Ap¬ 
prehensive curiosity held Foma in the doorway opposite. 
He wanted to leave, but, like a child who is at once frightened 
and curious, he remained where he was. 

Finally he straightened up and seemed about to walk away, 
when the sudden, full-throated growl of an unmuffled motor 
sounding on the tense, still air seemed to deprive him of 
motion. Another motor added its noise, and another, and 
more uncountable, until from the courtyard rose a steady and 
mighty-roar like insistent thunder. Not so all-engulfing, how¬ 
ever, for between the reverberations which the uncertain air 
made of it Foma’s keen, experienced ear heard the unmistak¬ 
able sharper, more metallic crackle of volleying musketry. 
And deeper in it, although merged indistinguishably, were 
other sounds suggestive of the twisted faces and the ugly 
bodies now writhing convulsively, now fallen in empty, life¬ 
less collapse, which, as accompaniments of human destruction, 
he knew so well and rebelled against so instinctively. 

After enduring it for a minute or two he attempted to 
saunter casually away, but broke into a frantic run before he 
left the horrid sounds far enough behind. 

X 

David was surprised one afternoon upon returning to his 
bank to find Radkin sitting in the small waiting-room outside 
the door of his private office. 

“This is an honour,” he remarked jovially, as he led the 


296 WINE OF FURY 

way into the office and indicated the chair beside his desk. 

Radkin sat down, his spare, angular, black-clad figure con¬ 
trasting directly with the gilded Victorian magnificence of the 
room converted to the uses of business. A black portfolio 
rested on his knees pressed together and his clasped hands 
rested on that. He did not respond to David’s mood. A 
strange, far-away, brooding expression had fixed itself on his 
triangular white face. 

David noted the change in his visitor and dropped his voice. 
“What’s the matter? What has happened?” 

Seconds stalked by before Radkin spoke. “The worst,” he 
said. 

“I do not understand,” replied David, puzzled by the un¬ 
natural hollowness of the voice. 

Radkin did not shift his gaze from the grey walls of the 
ancient Fortress out across the snow-covered Neva and framed 
by the window behind David. As though collecting far- 
scattered thoughts he began to talk: “When I saw you last 
I told you about the struggle going on within the ranks of 
our party between the moderates, who favoured a policy of 
as much co-operation as could be obtained from other groups 
in Russia, and the extremists, who advocated the establish¬ 
ment of a workmen’s dictatorship and a Commune. Well, 
the extremists have won. 

“They now swing the balance of power. They have al¬ 
ready begun the execution of their plans—the confiscation of 
private property, the abolition of personal and legal rights, the 
nationalisation of industries and banks, the central control of 
supplies, the suppression of groups and parties whose policies 
oppose theirs, the dismissal by force of the Constituent Assem¬ 
bly, the elimination and scattering of the so-called bourgeoisie, 
the pitiless repression of contra-activity, the killing without 
trial of individuals who even as much as express their opposi¬ 
tion . . .all this has begun . . . destruction . . .all of it 
. . . and Russia is on the way to ruin.” 

David did not say, “I told you so,” although the impulse did 


FURY 297 

tempt him. He fully intended to keep still, but something 
within him prompted him to remark: “You supported them.” 

As he searched Radkin’s immobile face and the depth of 
despair in the man’s eyes and voice opened before him, he 
would have given much to recall the words, tossing as they did 
the personal element into the outflow of thoughts which had 
no personal inspiration. He realised again that he still under¬ 
estimated Radkin, that the man’s attitude had not changed with 
his fortunes, and that, as usual, he was living down among men 
about whom his own associates knew little and, until challenged 
by the current events, cared less. 

Radkin ignored or had not noticed the personal note in 
David’s words. He resumed in the same far-away, impersonal 
tone: “Yes, I supported them—indirectly. They were a fac¬ 
tion in our party. I supported the party because it opposed 
war. I hate war. It is such a stupid means to a small end. 
We are all on the same world; there is only one way of getting 
off. We must work with or against each other. In co-oper¬ 
ation there is peace and in discord there is war; in peace is 
progress, which is our excuse for being, and in war is descent 
into the slime we came from. The sowing is our own, as is 
the reaping—inevitably. 

“In a world mad with hatreds our party alone seemed to 
recognize this and to have courage enough to act. It advocated 
peace. It promised to make peace in order to begin without 
delay the task of reviving Russia, of giving the masses of its 
people something they had never had, cause to love their 
country and labour for it. I supported the party. I saw it 
making of Russia a peaceful united nation of simple people, 
of simple institutions, and of simple, honest aims to which 
what is left of the complicated European civilisation at the 
end of this fraticidal war could turn for support, for encour¬ 
agement and for inspiration. You see, I loved Russia.” 

He stopped for a moment and looked at David as though, 
in making this last statement, he might not be believed. When 
he resumed, it was without the old sinuous vibrancy in his 


298 WINE OF FURY 

voice which had always characterised his speech. An un¬ 
natural flat brusqueness of tone betrayed the bitterness of the 
man’s disillusion and his horror of impending disaster. 

“Those who now have the power do not love Russia,” he 
said. “They are not thinking of Russia. They think only 
of the world revolution. They live only for the world revo¬ 
lution. They do not intend to devote all their efforts to the 
tremendous task of reviving Russia; they intend to use Russia 
as an instrument in the fight for the world revolution. Russia 
is to be used as a convenient agent for attacking the foundations 
of the present system of things which stands in the way of the 
world revolution. Impossible to bring about? Yes; but these 
men have already commenced their action to bring it about. 
They recognise no such impossibilities. All their lives, what 
has happened in Russia has been to them an impossibility, and 
now, inflamed by their success and the opportunity to practise 
their theories which through long years of repression in foreign 
lands they have come to worship with a religious fanaticism, 
they are pushing Russia towards their personal goal. The 
fact that in this mad pursuit Russia may be ruined, Europe 
relapse into barbarism, and civilisation end in chaos means 
nothing to them. They prosper by chaos. As though there 
were not enough of it already! With the nations of Europe 
writhing in catastrophic struggle which day after day mangles 
and murders their youth, breaks into dust and splinters the 
material results of their years of effort, expends their toil- 
gained accumulations of wealth in producing and scattering 
irretrievable energy, and when it does finally end, threatens 
to leave only the aged and the children surrounded by de¬ 
struction in a world without illusion. To such a Europe 
these fanatics are about to add a Russia stripped of the 
necessaries of life, ghastly with the evidences of a class 
struggle in which brute force tramples the innocent as well 
as the guilty, ill provided against the always imminent fam¬ 
ine which crushes millions to earth under its pitiless, bony 
hand, and its revolutionary ideals perverted to the disinte¬ 
gration of a world they were meant to inspire. And later 


FURY 299 

when peace does come and the exhausted nations of Europe 
do turn to Russia, what will they see—a naked, lurching 
giant, his great body splashed with blood, swollen with 
famine and pestilence, his simple mind confused with false¬ 
hood, being goaded to fall upon them and inflamed to that 
end with the subtle dregs of the wine of fury.” 

Silence followed Radkin’s words, silence during which 
neither of the men moved. David tried to note changes of 
expression on his visitor’s white face, but the features were 
blurred in the warning dusk of the early darkness. He 
wondered what action the man would take in regard to the 
circumstances he had described. Go away, perhaps. “You 
will be leaving the country, then?” he queried as though 
this was a matter of course. 

“I am staying here on my work,” came the casual reply. 

David looked at Radkin incredulously. “You don’t mean,” 
he queried, “that you trust this extremist faction to let you 
go on. They might kill you.” 

“Perhaps . . .” Radkin gestured with his slender fingers 
as though the consideration was not important. “But if 
not,” he resumed, “those of us who stay and work in the 
minor governmental positions which these people entrust to 
us will eventually carry our policy through to success. When 
the destruction of the old aristocracy and bourgeoisie is com¬ 
pleted and the time for reconstruction has arrived, the extre¬ 
mists in our party will fall, simply because they do not 
know how to go about such positive tasks. Then will come 
our time. We have already begun. Many of us have 
our new positions and we are prepared to work with the 
extremists as much as we have to in order that eventually 
we may lead Russia back to sanity and health.” Radkin 
paused for a moment and leaned towards David across the 
comer of the plain desk. “Morever,” he stated, “we want 
you to remain with us.” 

“What!” exclaimed David in amazement. He could not 
say more. He only stared blankly at Radkin. 

“Yes,” came the assurance, “the Soviet Government wants 


300 WINE OF FURY 

you to stay. I have pointed out that there will be poverty, 
hunger and sickness. To alleviate as much of this as possi¬ 
ble a Relief Section of the Government is being organized. 
It will have complete and absolute control over all matters 
pertaining to relief—the operation of the hospitals, the pro¬ 
duction of medical supplies, the establishment of food kitch¬ 
ens, the collection and distribution of clothing—in fact it 
is planned to be a relief organization on the vast scale of 
those which you Americans have shown to the world during 
these years of war. The man at the head of this section will 
be one of the most powerful for good in Russia ... in the 
world. He will be supreme in the field. His word will be 
law. The Soviet Government intends to back him to the 
limit. Naturally it wants the best man it can get. The So¬ 
viet Government has sent me to ask you to accept the position. 
Everyone hopes you will accept. Especially the group which 
will eventually replace the extremists. When the time for 
reconstruction comes, we know that you can do an even 
greater work.” 

Amazement quivered on David’s face. He had been 
caught without his usual self-possession. Conflicting reac¬ 
tions made tumult within him. Sarcasm, invective, laughter 
—all twitched at his lips for expression. He managed to 
control them all save the deeper amazement. 

“You propose that I leave what I have here”—he indi¬ 
cated the room and building in which they sat with a gesture 
almost as incredulous as his tone—“and work with the Bol¬ 
shevik Government as the Chief or Commissar of one of its 
bureaux? You know my political views. Even if I would, 
you know that I could not change them overnight to what 
you ask.” He stopped, his breath gone, so rapidly and forc¬ 
ibly had he spoken. 

“Mr. Rand,” assured Radkin, “your political views are im¬ 
material. The importance of this work is so great that the 
Soviet is determined to keep politics out of it. Your ability 
as an organizer and driver is recognised. It’s that we want 
and not your political opinions.” 


FURY 301 

“But if I do the work you ask and am successful, the 
position of the Soviet Government will be strengthened thereby. 
In other words, I will be helping to keep in power a Govern¬ 
ment of which I strongly disapprove.” 

Radkin regarded him for a moment with an expression 
of sadness. “I had hoped you would consider the matter 
in a broader sense than that,” he finally said, sincere dis¬ 
appointment sounding in his voice. 

He looked out to the immovable white expanse of the 
river, and his gaze did not return to David as he continued: 
“The individual is not usually of much importance, Mr. Rand. 
The world moves slowly. Through century after century 
civilisations come and go and their millions with them. 
Occasionally the spirit which animates them renews itself, 
wells forth in a spontaneous, irresistible eruption, the waves 
from which radiate to every shore of human existence— 
and life advances into a new phase. Such was the convul¬ 
sive effort which enabled the first creature of the slime to 
live upon the land; such was the tremendous concentration 
which resulted in the primitive man’s first writing on the 
wall of his cave; and such was the disruption in the French 
Revolution of the fettering power of kings upon human ac¬ 
tivity. At such times the individual is important. His effort 
may influence the future course of human progress. It be¬ 
hooves him to make the most of his opportunity. 

“Such an event, Mr. Rand, such an opportunity is in the 
Russian Soviet Revolution. Whatever comes of it, whether 
it succeeds or fails, it is bound to be an influence of one 
kind or another in the world for years to come. The prob¬ 
lem of social organisation which it presents is so tremendous 
and vital that men can disregard the ways and means of 
living, the petty cares, toils and pleasures that characterise 
the routine, can disregard them as comparatively of no con¬ 
sequence and, seeing the opportunity, can plunge their tiny 
strengths into the struggle, confident that in so doing they 
are living to the utmost. It is such an opportunity that we 
are offering you.” 


302 WINE OF FURY 

He stopped and searched David’s face for an answer. 
Absorbed with the tumult of his thoughts, David seemed 
neither to see nor to be conscious of him. The small rococo 
clock on the mantel ticked sharply, in polite accord with 
the garish Victorianism of the room. The dusk had deep¬ 
ened, rendering indistinct the faces of the two men. Out¬ 
side the snow touched soundlessly at the windows in mad¬ 
dening, ceaseless reiteration of its presence. Far off a 
machine-gun stuttered out its fatal message. 

It was Radkin’s voice that interrupted. “I’m not exactly 
sure what you’ve been working for here. Certainly you 
have done great work of a kind. I suppose you’ve made 
money . . . and a reputation in certain restricted circles. 
In this that we offer, whether we succeed or fail, you will 
save thousands of lives.” He paused. 

Still there was no answer from David, who sat like an 
image in his chair. 

Radkin rose and stood looking down at him. “I am not 
pressing you for an answer,” he continued in the same gentle 
tone of voice. “We want you to have plenty of time to make 
up your mind.” As he crossed the room his austere black 
coat contrasted with the old-rose and blue carpet and the 
florid gilded doors. “I beg of you, rest your decision on 
as deep and firm a foundation as you can reach”; and he 
added, with sadness and no threat in his voice: “Who knows 
how far-reaching will be its effects?” He closed the door 
after him and his footsteps sounded as diminishing taps on 
the hardwood floors. 

Inside the office David sat as before, staring with unseeing 
eyes into the deepening darkness. 


XI 


“What, after all, have they offered me?” he asked himself 
for the hundredth time. “Nothing tangible, nothing definite, 


FURY 303 

nothing solid; simply a chance to do a humanitarian work 
of considerable magnitude. 

“Chance, because, if I do accept, the accomplishment of 
the task will depend upon the permanence of the Soviet Gov¬ 
ernment. And haven’t I made plans based upon their downfall 
in the near future? They are negotiating a treaty of sep¬ 
arate peace with the Germans, who, being victors, will natur¬ 
ally demand the spoils. If the treaty is signed, the Russians 
will resent the ignominy of it and overthrow the Bolsheviks. 
If it is not signed the Germans will continue to advance, will 
capture Petrograd and Moscow, and throw them out, anyway. 

“On this basis my alternative plans hold good—either to 
remain and hold on to what I have, or to turn it over to the 
German representatives against a receipt which will almost 
certainly be honoured when peace is made. 

“On the other hand,” he resumed to himself, “if they re¬ 
main in power, and if I accept their offer, it means that no 
matter what they may say about the work’s having no polit¬ 
ical significance, people outside of Russia will be certain 
to see it in a political light. They will brand me as an 
aid to the Soviet Government. It will mean that I shall have 
to abandon my financial work here, and once having done 
that to accept such a position, I shall never be given an op¬ 
portunity again. It will virtually mean the sacrifice of a 
financial career in the United States and in other countries 
as well. I should have to live in Russia for the remainder 
of my life and I do not wish that. Again, if I take the chance, 
and the Soviets fall, I shall be disgraced. Whatever new 
government arises in Russia would have little use for one 
who had held an office, even a non-political humanitarian one, 
under the Bolshevik regime, and new opportunities would 
not be forthcoming outside of this country. 

“It comes down to this,” he repeated. “If I accept and 
the Bolsheviks achieve permanence, Russia will be the only 
field I can work in. If I accept and the Bolsheviks fail, I am 
ruined. But if I decline the Bolsheviks can do little against 


304 WINE OF FURY 

me. Haven’t they already admitted that I am too big, too 

powerful? 

“What is really up for decision,” he concluded, “is 
not simply whether I shall accept this new task or refuse it. 
The question is: shall I abandon my entire course of life, 
my aims, the past experience which has carried me so far 
towards realising them, and the future which seems so bright 
in spite of the darkness of the present situation? Shall I 
abandon all this for the new course which the Soviet offer 
necessitates? Up to now my progress has been along a 
straight, pre-defined line. Finance has been my chosen career, 
and I have trained for it and followed it without deviation. 
All my youth, all my education, all my effort has been towards 
this one end. And now that it is possible for me to achieve a 
greater triumph than I ever dreamed of, am I to let it all go 
and start anew on a way which leads to no reward?” 

Always when he had almost decided upon refusal, however, 
there lingered with him a faint but persistent doubt. Far 
down beneath the pyrotechnics of his reasoning the possi¬ 
bilities of the new opportunity burned with a steady glow. 
Its fuel was the feeling that he should throw reason to the 
winds and accept; that though faint now the glow would in 
time, through his own efforts and the favour of circumstances, 
flare and spread into an unearthly light beside which the 
brightness of his present work, for all its steadiness, would 
be paled into sickly incandescence. 

But to do this would be acting upon impulse, emotion, and 
his training had taught him to eliminate emotion from his 
decisions, to reserve every feeling of sympathy, of trust 
and of confidence, and to consider only his aims and the 
facts—the latter, if possible, set before him on the printed 
page duly signed with the proper signatures. His experience 
had shown that impulse and trust led to error and failure; 
reason and distrust, to exactness and success. The former 
he had rarely tried; the latter nearly always. And it had 
worked. 

Subconsciously he wished he could have discussed it with 


FURY 305 

Natalie, but when he thought further, it was perhaps just 
as well that he could not. Although her understanding of 
Russian affairs and character and her calm facing of the facts 
would be of value, she had disconcerting judgment as to 
which facts were important. For one thing, he knew that 
she would decide the question on its own merits and in ac¬ 
cordance with her own aims in life, and once having done so, 
would follow the chosen course unswervingly with care¬ 
lessness absolute for what people might think or say. 

“Anyway,” he reflected, “I shall see her at the Countess’ villa 
over the week-end. We shall settle these differences once and 
for all. I wonder what she thinks. I spoke too strongly. 
Will she forgive it? I must have peace of mind some time. 
I wonder if she would marry me when this Bolshevik busi¬ 
ness is settled . . . now?” 

He rose from his desk-chair, as he did so crumpling the 
sheet of paper upon which he had been drawing meaning¬ 
less, near-geometric designs. He tossed it into the waste¬ 
basket and looked about him as though noting his surroundings 
for the first time. The early afternoon darkness which now 
set in long before the electricity was turned on in the city 
left few distinct outlines in the room. He leaned against 
his chair for a moment, still in thought. An exclamation, 
emphasised by the thump of his palm on the edge of the 
desk, escaped his lips: “It is impossible. To give up my 
work at the height of its accomplishment. When its very 
risks are being brought safely through the crises. Even the 
gold.” 

His reflections dwelt upon the precious metal behind the 
door of the wall-safe. Something drew him to it. He lit 
a small candle. It shed a yellow glow over its immediate 
surroundings and flickered as he moved with it in his hand 
across the room to the safe. “As uncertain as the opportunity 
they offered me,” he thought. He swung the door slowly 
outward, and the oblong, steel-lined opening and its contents 
emerged from the gloom. The metal lay as it had first been 
placed—in a regular, pyramid-shaped pile, squat, solid, im- 


306 WINE OF FURY 

passive. In the flickering candle-light it gleamed dully with 

a variety of aspect which almost gave it expression. 

David regarded it with no feelings of greed or lust, nor 
any of the thoughts the romancers had so long associated 
with the yellow metal. To him it was gold, the measure of 
value agreed upon for the products and manufactures of 
the various peoples; gold, the protective reserve maintained 
by reputable banks and financial houses as reinforcement in 
time of stress; gold, the giver of value to the paper money 
which facilitated the exchange between peoples of the pro¬ 
ducts of their labour; gold, the foundation of the business 
world in which he lived and laboured. How reassuring it was! 
How solid his career with it in comparison to that which had 
been offered him! 

Holding the candle overhead so that it illuminated his 
square, set features as well as the pyramid of power before 
him, he smiled at the thought of the worry the gold had at 
first aroused. It had been a great risk, but a risk forced 
upon him. Yet no one had touched it. No harm had come 
to him because of it. The hard words it had led him to 
speak to Natalie were forgotten, while he now regarded it, 
not as a risk, but as the anchor of his success. 

He surveyed its bright tangibility once again and closed 
the safe door so swiftly and determinedly that the candle 
flame was extinguished. 


XII 

Although eleven o’clock at night, the demands of his work 
had drawn David back to his office. He sat alone, encom¬ 
passed by the cares of his business. 

The rose-coloured brocade curtains which flanked each 
window were drawn and the spacious room had an air of 
comfort. It could never be home-like. The rose-coloured 
rug with its huge flowered figures, the rose tapestry wall¬ 
covering, the ornate gilded fireplace, fixtures and chairs, and 


FURY 307 

the cupid-populated heaven of its ceiling for ever dispelled 
any atmosphere of home in favour of an air of sweet Victor¬ 
ian grandeur. 

He contemplated it again, and again with a sigh came the 
thought of the petty irony that had him pass so many of the 
most important hours of his life in immediate surroundings 
so fiercely in conflict with his tastes. 

Outside intermittent shots sounded. The clouds hovered 
just above the city and the omnipresent snow fell slowly, as 
though lowered carefully to the earth from above on endless 
and invisible strings. In the darkness, here and there shaped 
into vague and grotesque shadows by the occasional feeble 
street lamps or the escaping beam from some curtained win¬ 
dow, the great city sprawled supine, its colour fading to a 
deathly grey as the blood sapped from its mortal wounds. 

He had been looking over the day’s mail, consisting of the 
usual stack of letters covering the routine transactions 
which could no longer be effected, letters from the United 
States three and four months late, local letters asking for 
money which the rules of his institution forbade him to give 
even had he so decided, and notes of good-bye from friends 
who were fortunate enough to be able to leave the city. One 
of these he read again: 

Dear Friend, —Miraculously, I have obtained permission to leave 
Russia, and I am going—will be gone when this letter reaches you. I 
know that you will destroy it. 

There is every reason why I should not remain—I have lost so much, 
my beloved wife, my friends, and my business—and there is every 
reason why I should go—to take my children where they will have a 
fair chance to live life as it was meant to be lived—in happiness. 

As you will say to yourself, this is contrary to the decision I ven¬ 
tured when we last saw each other. I had then decided to remain and 
help my country in her hours of trial in what small way I could. Were 
I young and without the responsibilities of a family, I should seek 
nothing better; but alas! I am old and I see that responsibilities 
to oneself are as nothing compared to the responsibilities towards those 
we love. 


308 WINE OF FURY 

You expressed the opinion that things would soon take a turn for 
the better. That, my friend, is your incorrigible American optimism. 
You ouce inspired me with it. I fear it is a harmful influence in so 
far as it leads us away from facing the facts. With me, in Russia, it 
has done that. Following the Revolution I retired each night with 
the hope that to-morrow things would be better. But on every to¬ 
morrow I awakened to find things worse. And now, when each day 
brings its quota of horrid facts—exhaustion of food supplies, famine, 
cholera and typhus, persecution of adherents of the old regime such as 
yesterday’s episode of the sailors at Kronstadt expelling their officers 
naked into the snow and chasing them through the streets with whips— 
when each night is but a protracted dread lest the silent, crimson hand 
of the Cheka reach into our homes and pluck forth a loved one who 
will never be seen again, and when I look back over the past few months 
and see in its entirety just how far down Russia has gone, it is with a 
shudder that I contemplate the future. No, my friend, things will not 
improve for a long, long time. As it, goes now, bribery here, treachery 
there, cowardice on this hand and murder on that, there is a general 
collapse of all the forces which make the character of a country. All 
those influences which tended to keep men in the beaten path have 
been scattered, and the entire social and economic structure is falling 
like scaffolding under the wrecker’s hammer. And before new forces 
can grow, new influences arise, Russia has a long, weary way to go deep 
down through the lowest shambles and a hard climb to the light again, 
alone, unaided and reviled. 

Well, I go. The sadness in my heart is great because I was unable 
to do more for you in my own country—and because I may never see 
you again. I salute you, and beg of you to remember me as always 
your friend, 

Sergei Vassilievitch. 

David sighed as he respected the wishes of the writer and 
tore up the letter. There were others like it. They came 
daily. It seemed as though everyone he knew, both Russian 
and foreigner, had gone or was going. Soon he alone of all 
of them would be left. A reserved smile of determination 
drew at the corners of his mouth. 

Even those in authority at the New York office did not under- 


FURY 309 

stand. They were beginning to weaken. He looked again at 
the cablegram which had arrived that morning: 

“At meeting this morning officers commended you again for your 
success and voted further salary increase of three thousand stop if 
regulations mentioned yours tenth made effective suggest you leave 
affairs in hands of responsible foreign representative and return.” 

He had answered the cable thanking them for their praise 
and for the tangible manner in which they had backed it up. 
But on the situation as it affected him and his affairs he some¬ 
how felt that he could give better information after seeing 
Natalie at the Countess Borovskaya’s villa. 

The noises of someone pounding at the lower street door 
interrupted his thoughts. He heard the night doorman 
struggling with the lock and the burr of voices in argument 
penetrated the room. There came the shuffle of the old man’s 
felt boots followed by a timid rap at the office door. “Yes,” 
he called, “come in.” 

The door swung open and agitation showed on the old 
man’s face as he stood politely on the threshhold. “There 
are soldiers below,” he exclaimed excitedly, “three, and an 
officer—one who calls himself an officer,” he exclaimed sar¬ 
castically. “He really isn’t one, just a Red Guard dressed 
like an officer-” 

“Yes, Stepan Ivanovitch,” said David, interrupting the 
man’s preamble to the long, descriptive tale he made of every 
incident of the day. “What do they want?” 

“One of them has a note for you.” 

“Well then, bring him up.” 

The old man shuffled off towards the stairs through the 
darkness of the great salon. The clatter of hobnail boots on 
the marble steps sounded clearly and, in a moment, three 
towering, long-coated soldiers entered the room, led by a 
small, florid officer with a sandy moustache and the waist and 
legs of a woman. “Mr. David Rand?” demanded the officer. 



310 WINEOFFURY 

David nodded assent. The officer came forward and 
handed him a sealed and grimy envelope. 

As David ripped it open, he saw that the bearer watched 
him closely; that of the three soldiers, one glowered at the 
timid Stepan Ivanovitch, one gaped in open-mouthed amaze¬ 
ment at the splendour of the room, while the third yawned 
sleepily. 

The contents of the note were brief: 

Mr. Rand, —Please accompany the bearer. 

Peter Radkin. 

That was all. No explanation, no reasons. The brevity 
and assurance of it nettled him. He looked at the dumpy 
little officer, who stroked his moustache importantly. “I can¬ 
not go with you to-night,” he said. 

Excitement flourished in the mobile face of the officer. 
“You must,” replied that individual loudly. 

“But I do not wish to,” expostulated David, his own feel¬ 
ings mounting in pace with those of the emissary. “Tell Mr. 
Radkin that I shall see him to-morrow.” 

The officer fairly quivered with excitement. He drew his 
sword from its trailing sabre and pointing it dramatically at 
David, shouted: “Comrades! Arrested!” It was evident 
that he considered his an important mission and was deter¬ 
mined to make the most of it. 

The three soldiers, their bayoneted rifles held before them, 
approached the desk. One ranged himself at each side of 
David and the third took stand behind the chair. 

“Now come!” commanded the officer, as he started for the 
door. 

David did not move. Nor did the three soldiers. The 
officer whirled with a clatter of his scabbard on the polished 
floor. “Why don’t you come?” he shrieked. “Look at him!” 
he exclaimed almost in anguish to the soldiers. “He does 
not move and he is arrested and everything. Stupids! Make 
him come. Hit him. Stick him with your bayonets!” 


FURY 311 

David rather wished he had stood up. He sat waiting for 
anything to happen. The soldier behind him leaned for¬ 
ward and said in a low, pleasant voice: “If his Excellency 
would come with us it might save trouble.” 

The soldier’s politeness drew him from his chair and with 
a feeling of relief he accompanied his escort, the knock- 
kneed officer swaggering with drawn sabre as though on 
parade. “It is all right, Stepan Ivanovitch,” he remarked in 
answer to the terror on the old doorman’s face. “I’ll be back 
soon.” 

Outside a black limousine with dim lights awaited them. 
The officer and two of the guards seated themselves in the 
rear with him. They rolled away. 

Questions, some of them immediately answered, shot into 
mind like a cloud of stinging arrows. “What is this for? 
Where are they taking me? Why did Radkin write me such 
a note? Perhaps it was not he that wrote it? Yes, it was 
his signature. Am I really under arrest? What have I done 
that they arrest me? Why do they drag me out at this time 
of night? Is there really any danger? Perhaps I should 
have sent Stepan to the Embassy? But they could do noth¬ 
ing.” 

Such thoughts and many more came to mind. He finally 
gave up trying to answer them, and as his eyes became ac¬ 
customed to the gloom and he found he could just discern 
the ever-changing surroundings through the low window he 
tried to keep track of their route by the various street-signs 
fastened to the corners of the buildings. “Palace Quay, 
French Quay, Litainaya Prospekt,” he enumerated to him¬ 
self. But as they swung off into side-alleys where no lights 
gleamed, he gave up the attempt. 

The dismal streets with the low, dilapidated walls of their 
cracked plaster buildings rushed past like a great cyclorama; 
a thick, heavy snow, the streets piled high with it; here and 
there an abandoned tram, its wheels buried in their efforts 
to find the obliterated tracks; a dead horse with chunks of 
meat cut from its frozen flanks forming a grotesque and snowy 


312 WINE OF FURY 

hillock in the centre of the quay; and occasionally silent, 
plodding people, with now and then a voice sounding through 
the shroud of white, protesting against the lack of bread. 

The car stopped before a low but massive building with 
long, even rows of shuttered windows; and David, between 
his guards, who stumbled clumsily, mounted the steps leading 
to the entrance. The heavy door swung open to admit them 
and he was hurried down a dim corridor to a room at one 
side, lighted by one electric bulb, and bare of all decoration 
or furniture save one straight-backed chair. He was left 
alone. He heard the key turn in the lock and felt the pres¬ 
ence of a guard outside the door. 

Ten minutes passed during which his thoughts registered 
in as rapid succession as the ticks of his watch, which were 
loud in the stillness of the bare room. 

Then the guard entered, motioning him to follow as he un¬ 
locked the door in the opposite wall and led the way down a 
short, dark corridor. At the end a closed door barred their 
progress, and from beyond it David heard the sound of voices 
punctuated by spasms of laughter, as though a diverse group 
carried on diverse conversation. When the guard rapped 
there arose a chorus of “Ts-s-st!” followed by absolute si¬ 
lence. 

The door was opened and David stepped into a spacious, 
brilliant room. A second impression swept over his con¬ 
sciousness closely after the first, bringing with it further de¬ 
tails. The room was semicircular and two storeys high. A 
sloping bank of seats like a stadium took up the curved sec¬ 
tion, with the semicircular pit or arena bare save for a single 
chair. With the chair, quite by chance, as an axis, two aisles 
radiated up the tiers of seats to the curving top and rear 
aisle. The brilliance resulted from bright lights intensified 
by the white paint and enamel which covered the furnishings 
and all walls save a strip of blackboard along that nearest 
the pit. Crude drawings of the Tsar and Rasputin and others 
of the old regime and an occasional obscene phrase decor¬ 
ated this. 


FURY 313 

“A lecture-room. An operating-room,” thought David. 
“The medical school. The Cheka! I am before the Cheka!” 

The realisation hit hard. He felt his heart beat faster. 
The muscles of his knees suddenly became weak and he 
wanted to sit down. He strove to control himself and to as¬ 
semble his thoughts for the examination which he concluded 
must follow. 

He lifted his gaze out over the tiers of seats. In the first 
curving row, which, unlike the others, had desks before 
them, seven men sat with an air of dignity. Four wore sol¬ 
diers’ uniforms. Three were in black civilian suits and had 
black leather portfolios opened before them. In the centre 
sat Radkin. David gave a start of recognition as he noted 
the clean-cut black-and-white countenance. 

Radkin’s gaze betrayed no answering recognition. It was 
hard, fixed, impersonal. As he met it, David saw the 
man again standing in the doorway of the Dukharin home 
that night before the Revolution, and he heard again his 
tense voice saying: “It is evident that you have little com¬ 
prehension of the forces in which you are involved.” He 
understood too, in this meeting of glances, that he could 
expect from Radkin in his present environment nothing more 
friendly than his own conception of justice. Knowing the 
man well, did he fear that? 

He looked away. An audience of some fifty people—sol¬ 
diers and workmen and women—was grouped in the slanting, 
curving rows of seats. The round face of one soldier seemed 
familiar. He looked at it again and recollections came of 
the incidents which had fixed it in his memory. Far back 
in the pre-Revolution days, the soldier eating sunflower seeds 
whom he had seen ejected from the Summer Garden by the 
police; who had come into the bank that night during the 
Revolution to search for those hated police. Foma Ivano- 
vitch, that was the name. And the plump girl, her shiny 
oval face framed in a tan-coloured shawl, sitting there beside 
the soldier, her hand in his, was the same who had accom¬ 
panied him on other occasions when their ways had crossed. 


314 WINEOFFURY 

One of the Dukharin maids. Strange that he should see 
them again—here—under these circumstances . . . “al¬ 

though,” he reflected, “in these times ... it seems . . . 
nothing is strange.” 

His eyes wandered from the youthful couple and their 
simple affection out over the seats to other soldiers, sailors 
and their women, whom they openly fondled. In most cases 
respectability in the audience seemed to vary in direct pro¬ 
portion to distance from the front row. In the last row 
lounged a group of nondescript soldiers and civilians. In 
their midst sat Naritza. 

One look and his eyes closed involuntarily. The words of 
the Countess came to him: “It was not the Naritza that I 
knew.” He recalled his first meeting with her before the 
Revolution, in the promenade of the opera house. How in 
spite of the scrupulous reserve of her dress and manner he 
had thought of her as a beautifully moulded vase containing 
a deadly poison. Well, the poison had worked through the 
vase now. It showed in the narrow eyes heavy with drink, 
the stark white face, the red mouth like a cut in it, and in the 
confusion of her clothes. 

To the loungers of the back row she was evidently a per¬ 
son of importance. They cast sidelong glances of admira¬ 
tion at her furs, her silks and her jewels. Other words of 
the Countess, spoken long ago, came to mind: “Naritza is 
is only as good as the people in power.” In unwelcome 
comparison he again thought of her as he had once seen her, 
this time as the dominant figure in the Mariensky theatre. 
How like a fluttering rose-petal as she floated in the moon¬ 
light of her dance! It seemed as though the reserve, the 
self-control tempered to the strength of piano-wire which had 
made possible the patience and the endurance imperative to 
produce such beauty, had snapped and let her loose to this— 
a tomb of unborn beautiful illusions. She settled in her 
seat and regarded him with a mirthful, triumphant gaze. 
He looked away. 

He wondered why something didn’t happen. The confused 


FURY 315 

talk had broken out again, as comments—presumably con¬ 
cerning him—were passed back and forth. In the first row 
he saw the soldiers leaning towards Radkin and one of his 
black-suited colleagues. They engaged in argument. He 
could not catch their meaning, but the jerky sibilance of their 
voices told him of the clash of ideas. 

In the midst of the hubbub the door through which he had 
come opened again. He saw with apprehensive surprise that 
it was Anna Dukharina, who stood there before a burly guard, 
her eyes blinking under the lights and her slender white hands 
smoothing out the black mourning dress which showed under 
her cloak—like a nervous child about to speak a piece. 

From the upper row a voice called: “That’s not the one. 
It’s the other one we want.” Another joined: “It’s the 
wrong one. It’s the elder sister that can tell us. This 
one’s only a kid. Send her back home.” 

“Yes, let her go. Take her home,” said someone from the 
corner where Naritza sat. David saw a soldier turn and 
make a remark. He saw Naritza’s mouth twitch in a con¬ 
temptuous smile as she nodded vigorously and made some 
reply which set the row of soldiers laughing. Three of 
them stumbled from their seats over the extended legs of 
their fellows, clumped down the tiers of steps and followed 
the guard who conducted the frightened Anna out into the 
corridor. 

“They are going to take her home,” he concluded, with a 
sense of relief. “They wanted Natalie. What if they had 
brought her here? Then nearly all of us who have met so 
often would be here. Natalie, Aneta, Radkin, Foma Ivanovitch, 
Naritza, myself—all brought together in this one place. 
What has done it? Chance . . . no . . . I’ve met them 
. . . I’m tied to each one of them by a thread ... of ex¬ 
perience . . . and they’re tied to me . . . every time we’ve 
met the thread’s become stronger . . . we’re all tied to¬ 
gether in experience and we cannot get away. Radkin here, 
Naritza there, the soldier and his girl on that side, Anna and 
Alexei on this. Our threads cross . . . and there is a knot. 


316 WINE OF FURY 

One thread is pulled . . . and these others move. What 
each of us does involves others ... we should think hard 
. . . and be sure. Yes, a net . . . that’s what it is . . . 
we ... all of us . . . are caught in it . . . for better 
... or worse. . . . Why is it so quiet?” 

The silence disturbed him. Involuntarily he shook his 
head, looking about, and once more became aware of his sur¬ 
roundings. Those in the room seemed to be staring at 
him. He felt himself to be the focus of every eye. 
The directness of their gaze, the centring of the aisles and the 
tiers of seats upon him, brought back the feeling of himself 
alone against them all. He felt, too, the terror which was 
widespread over the stricken city—the result of uncertainty 
whether the encompassing hopeless snarl of conflicting and 
unrestrained desires would arbitrarily deal out destruction 
of rewards of lifelong effort, harmless laughter, death de¬ 
liberate or accidental—felt it centred, intensified in this 
room. 

Radkin’s repressed voice sounded clearly. “Mr. David 
Rand,” it began slowly, “sometime ago it was my privilege, 
at the request of the Government of the People’s Commis¬ 
saries, to present to you an offer to organise and direct a 
Relief Section for the welfare of the Russian people. The 
offer was left with you with the assurance that reasonable 
time would be allowed for your consideration. The Govern¬ 
ment of the People’s Commissaries thinks the time has been 
sufficient, and I am ordered, in its name, to request your 
answer here to-night. You have decided?” 

He felt the blood throbbing in his temples. His nostrils 
distended as always when his brain worked under pressure. 
His thoughts came clearly, without hesitation, equivocation 
or confusion. Words to express his ideas exactly marshalled 
themselves at his bidding. 

“Yes,” he replied, rising to his feet, where he somehow felt 
more sure of himself. “I have decided. I cannot accept the 
offer.” 

Silence followed his declaration. He had half expected 


FURY 317 

some demonstration of displeasure. There was none. Those 
in the row with Radkin looked at their colleague with an “I 
told you so” expression. Radkin’s white face, which he re¬ 
garded determinedly and fixedly, showed none of this. He 
rose to face David squarely. “Are there reasons which you 
care to give?” 

David could not exclude a note of defiance from his voice 
as he replied: “I will say that it is impossible for me to ally 
myself with a government which, by forcibly breaking up the 
Constituent Assembly, holds its power in spite of the wishes 
of the people it governs.” 

The defiance elicited no response. He wished that he had 
maintained silence. It would have been better. What he had 
said could do him no good and it had not been much satis¬ 
faction after all. The thought came to him that perhaps, in 
this room, it had already been said many times before with 
the same futile tone of challenge. Radkin spoke again in a 
questioning voice. 

“It was made plain to you that the proposition was human¬ 
itarian and in no way political?” 

“Yes, I understand that to be the theory. The fact, I be¬ 
lieve, would be otherwise.” 

“Your answer is final?” 

“My answer is final and irrevocable.” 

Radkin turned and, leaning forward, conversed in low tones 
with his fellow-occupants of the front benches. The black- 
suited man at his right, with an air of profound gravity, pro¬ 
duced a paper from his portfolio and handed it to Radkin. 

“Their answer,” thought David. “They have anticipated 
my decision. What will they do about it? What can they 
do-” 

Radkin’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He had been 
reading from the paper. David realised that he had not 
heard the first words. 

“ . . . hence, in the name of the Government of the People’s Com¬ 
missaries, it is hereby decreed that the provision of the Decree of 27th 



318 WINE OF FURY 

December 1917 covering the nationalisation of private banks applies 
likewise to the American Bank; that its separate charter given by the 
Tsar is revoked; that the decision whether the bank shall be closed or 
operated as a branch of the People’s Bank rests with the Government 
of the People’s Commissaries; that all its deposits, securities, real estate 
and holdings of whatsoever nature are hereby confiscated by the said 
Government and . . 

David sank back into his chair. He knew that Radkin 
was still reading, but the words only sounded as a distant 
buzz in his ears. What he had just heard was enough. With 
one flourish it shattered the gleaming structure of his labours. 
The roar of its fall reverberated about him. “They have 
done it. They have done it,” he repeated to himself. “I 
did not think they would do it. They have done it.” His 
attention struggled to the sound of his name. “. . . and 
said manager, David Rand,” Radkin was reading, “and all 
his staff must be out of Petrograd en route from Russia not 
later than twenty-four hours from the time of this announce¬ 
ment.” 

So that was it. He must leave the country also. “They 
cannot do this,” he thought. “They are mad. What is he 
saying now?” 

He realised that Radkin had set the paper from which he 
had been reading down upon the desk and that he was now 
regarding him fixedly. “Is there any reason that you can 
give,” asked Radkin in the same acrid tone, “why the order 
as read should not be enforced?” 

David saw his chance. “None,” he replied decisively, “ex¬ 
cept that from the point of view of Russia’s interests it is 
folly. If my institution is allowed to remain here intact 
it can maintain itself as a stronghold of organisation in a 
field of chaos. . . .” While speaking, he wondered subcon¬ 
sciously if this was the right track. “Are they interested?” 
he asked himself almost fearfully. “I’m lost if they’re not. 

. . . “When the period of transition is done in Russia and 
the time comes for you to build, it can do a great work. It 


FURY 319 

can interest foreign capital in Russian affairs; give such cap¬ 
ital a guarantee of safety; lead it to enter Russia, and pro¬ 
mote the vital work of developing Russia’s enormous re¬ 
sources. ...” “Yes, they are interested,” he noted with 
elation. “See them lean forward. Money, resources, that 
gets them every time!” He launched into the climax of his 
appeal. . . . “American money, American technical skill, 
which my institution can furnish you, will plant three acres 
of grain where there is now one, will cut double the number 
of trees in Russia’s inexhaustible forests, will dig the valuable 
metals and fuel from your mines, double the amount of your 
cotton and flax, build and equip the great factories which will 
make these raw materials into finished products, and will 
construct a network of railroads over the country which can 
carry these products to the ports for distribution among other 
countries. By doing all this, by enlisting foreign money and 
foreign skill, Russia can make the most of her natural re¬ 
sources, and in doing so become one of the richest, most 
powerful nations of the world.” 

Silence followed the close of his statement. He looked 
over the faces before him for its effect. They were watching 
him intensely. Were they interested enough; were they con¬ 
vinced of the truth of his words; would they ask for the non¬ 
enforcement of the sentence which had been passed upon 
him? His fate in Russia, perhaps in the international busi¬ 
ness world, and in the salvation of all his years of education, 
experience and exhausting effort in this baffling country might 
depend upon their reaction. He must have a ready answer 
for the reply. 

It came from an unexpected quarter—from the soldier 
called Foma Ivanovitch, who had leaned forward in his seat, 
his brows wrinkled with the effort of concentration. There 
was no motive of challenge or opposition in his voice, only 
the simple, wondering tone of a child seeking explanation. 
“Why?” 

David stared at the quizzical face of the soldier helplessly. 
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. None 


320 WINE OF FURY 

seemed to be available. Meanwhile other voices sounded 

from various parts of the room. 

“Yes, why? What for? We have the land now. We are 
happy. Why turn everything upside down like that?” 

The difficulty of attempting to answer the query was ap¬ 
parent to him. “If they cannot see why,” he thought, “how 
can I explain?” The depth and width of the abyss which 
separated his own philosophy from that of his questioners 
confounded him. He raised his hands and let them fall in 
a gesture of futility. 

He became aware of a disturbance in the room. Those 
in the first row seemed about to leave. Again he heard Rad- 
kin’s voice: “Twenty-four hours, then, you have to be out 
of Petrograd on your way out of Russia. Meanwhile I would 
prefer to leave you alone with the ruins of your efforts, but 
there are others who would question you. I advise you to 
answer quickly in order that you may go without trouble. 
Our protest is not so much against the nature of your work 
as against your adherence to it in such times as the present. 
While the world shakes with war and while Russia is con¬ 
vulsed with the birth-pains of a new freedom you have bent 
your determined strength and your well-ordered mind to the 
service of self and an avaricious few. If you should die to¬ 
night, what aid to mankind in its vital struggle would you 
have rendered?” 

Like heavy, translucent drops of acid the words fell one 
by one into the turgid mixture of his emotions. And from 
the ensuing actions and reactions there arose a psychological 
mist which concealed from his comprehension the nature of 
the elemental changes taking place. 

Dimly he saw Radkin’s colleagues follow him to the door, 
saw his square black figure stride from the room with the 
same forceful, determined step which he had first noted when 
they had walked together across the bridge to the Dukharin 
home that night so few months and yet so long, long ago. 

Faintly he heard the noises of a moving crowd in the room 
and he became aware that the front rows of seats were packed 


FURY 321 

with spectators, that in the central place of honour sat a 
droop-faced, watery-eyed soldier called “Comrade Vletsky,” 
that beside him sat the blowzy Naritza. And as he searched 
the tiers of faces through the mists which hovered before him 
he felt himself caught in the invisible net of circumstances 
and personal interests, the presence of which he had sensed be¬ 
fore, felt himself being dragged away, he knew not whither, 
another individualist victim of chance and his choice. 

He heard Vletsky’s soft, insinuating voice: “Your Ex¬ 
cellency, Mr. David Rand, you have in your bank some 
gold-” 

Ah! The gold. The vision of the gleaming pyramid se¬ 
cure behind the wall-safe door flashed before his eyes. “By 
God! They won’t get that!” he exclaimed inwardly. And 
the thought that he might yet partially thwart his enemies 
brought a grim smile to his face. A smile which faded, how¬ 
ever, before the subconscious agitation caused by Radkin’s 
words which seemed to bubble and hiss with the thought of 
the gold. 

Vletsky continued: “. . . and in the name of the Govern¬ 

ment of the People’s Commissaries I command you to tell 
where it is.” 

“I refuse,” he exclaimed defiantly. 

Tumult. Sounds of speech and action filled the air. Nar- 
itza’s shrill voice silenced them: “None of that, now, Mr. 
High-and-Mighty Banker; there’s gold there and we know it. 
Where’s it hid?” 

He saw her snatch a revolver from a soldier, level it at 
him across the white desk, and heard her sibilant exclamation 
to someone beside her: “Bah! What can his government 
do? Write us a note perhaps!” Heard her voice again: 
“Come on, tell us where it is.” 

The threat of the black hole in the gleaming barrel pointed 
at him was plain. He felt the presence of the eager bullet. 
The spot where it would strike burned on his chest. He 
closed his eyes. “Tell us,” came the sinister, threatening de¬ 
mand. The gleam of the gold was bright in his memory. 


322 WINE OF FURY 

“I will tell you where it is.” 

Who had spoken? He opened his eyes and turned with 
the others towards the doorway. Natalie stood there, her 
blue cape thrown back, her white dress matching the white¬ 
ness of the room. “It is in a wall-safe on the left-hand side 
of the fireplace, in his private office.” She continued before 
he could speak: “The lock is behind a light-fixture.” 

The entire audience rushed at him. “The keys. Where 
are they? Give us the keys!” 

The mixture of his thoughts and emotions, the mists which 
had arisen from it at Radkin’s words, eddied and swirled 
within him. They absorbed his strength and obscured his 
determination. “No! No!” he shouted in desperation, and 
as the crowd closed in upon him he swung out as best he 
could, one fist after another. Pandemonium. The satisfy¬ 
ing crunch of his solid knuckles against a resilient cheek. 
Natalie’s outcry: “David! Give them up.” That soldier 
raising his clubbed revolver. He tried to dodge, to ward the 
blow. Naritza’s painted, hate-twisted face; her sharp-nailed 
fingers clawing at him. A snarl of thread-like flame in the 
darkness of his mind. Helplessness. The tossing sea of 
faces, the tiers of seats and the white walls reared like a 
great wave, curved and broke upon him with a seething, ob¬ 
literating crash. 


XIII 

When he became conscious of his surroundings, he found 
himself in one of the tier seats, his aching head resting in his 
arms on the hard desk. Summoning his strength, he looked 
up. 

The spacious room was dim now. Only one electric bulb 
persisted in the darkness. It seemed empty and silent. He 
thought himself alone until he clenched the edge of the desk 
to push himself upright. His shoulder brushed something 


FURY 323 

beside him. He turned his wearied eyes and they rested upon 
Natalie. 

She sat motionless, waiting for him to speak. She held a 
glass of water. He raised his hands to dispel the fiery mists 
which hovered before his vision. His fingers touched a cool, 
wet forehead. The recollection of all that had happened 
swept through his mind, borne on one of the rhythmic throbs 
of pain. “Why did you let them have it?” he muttered, as 
his head sank to his hands. 

“They might have killed you,” she replied simply. 

They sat in silence in the big dim room, side by side, at 
the desks, like children at school. “How did you come 
here?” he asked. 

“I went to your office to see you. They told me they 
thought you had been brought here.” 

“You came here—alone—for me?” 

“Yes.” 

He tried to speak. Words seemed flat and poor. He took 
her cool hand and rested his lips upon it. 

“I couldn’t bear it any longer, David,” she said. “I waited 
and waited for you.” 

“I didn’t know—you passed me once in the street—I 
thought-” He could say no more. 

“I have not seen you since that night in the hospital. It 
has been a long time, David.” 

“Yes,” he assented abjectly. 

“Do you know why they brought me here?” he asked 
after a pause. 

“Why, yes, to find out-” She stopped short as a new 

and arresting thought focused her every faculty upon his 
words. 

“They made me an offer-” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” she interposed tensely. So harsh had 
been his recent experience that her knowledge of what had 
been confidential did not arouse his curiosity. 

“Well,” he continued, “they wanted my answer to-night.” 


324 WINE OF FURY 

“Yes,” she breathed. 

“I refused the offer.” He did not see that every tense fibre 
in her body seemed to relax, that light and life seemed to van¬ 
ish from her face. 

“They replied by confiscating everything I had,” he con¬ 
tinued. “It’s all gone—all my work. I must go.” 

“Why?” she exclaimed. “Why? If it is all gone you 
can stay. They want nothing more from you. Stay and-” 

“Impossible,” he interrupted. “I must explain the fail¬ 
ure of my work. I must make it good or else my name is 
gone with it. It still holds me—for awhile—closer than ever. 
I am leaving to-night—Natalie.” 

A groan had filtered through her compressed lips. “No-o-o, 
David, no. ...” Her closed hands beat together in de¬ 
spair. Tears welled in her eyes and caught in her lashes. 
“Oh,” she whispered, “I wanted you-” She caught her¬ 

self and stopped. Her head drooped. 

“We shall have each other,” he said, drawing her close to 
him, and continuing with suppressed calmness: “I have been 
wrong, Natalie. Some things are not as important as I 
thought. I do not quite understand. But before I am done 
I shall understand.” There was no hesitation in his voice 
now. And the mists which had hovered before his eyes ever 
since Radkin’s last words to him were gone. 

“We shall have each other,” he repeated. “There is a 
train leaving for Murmansk at twelve to-night. It’s the only 
possible way out of the city. An hour or so to send some 
messages, to collect a few necessaries, and we are off . . . for 
you are going with me.” 

He drew her unresisting from her chair and with one arm 
about her shoulder he guided her from the room. 

XIV 

For fully half-an-hour after their departure the dim room 
remained empty and silent. 

Then hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor, followed by 


FURY 325 

the crunching and squeaking of opening and closing doors. 
Nearer and nearer came the voices. A man in uniform 
pushed open the door and half ran into the centre of the pit. 
He stood for a moment swaying this way and that with in¬ 
decision as the other entrances to the room met his frantic 
glances. He called: “Anna! Aneta!” 

It was Alexei. 

The words reverberated in the bare room and rolled back 
at him redoubled and unanswered. A slight noise beyond 
the farther door turned him. 

The knob moved, the latch clicked in the stillness, and the 
door slowly opened. A flood of light behind it made a wid¬ 
ening yellow fan on the floor. Alexei stood watching, tense 
as a drawn bow. 

Low down, the corner of a black dress appeared; another, 
shoulder high; and in the light, a fluff of hair. Then Anna 
was revealed to him, bending forward, one hand clenching 
the knob as though leaning half upon it and half against the 
panels. Her hair was tangled in confusion. A purple bruise 
sullied one cheek and scratches marked her white chin, neck 
and throat. One shoulder of her dress, its sombre colour in 
brutal contrast to her fair youth, had been torn away, reveal¬ 
ing the soft, white skin. The black skirt hung creased and 
soiled. One stocking had fallen in wrinkles about her ankle. 
She held one hand behind her. She gazed straight ahead as 
though she had peered into some awful place and had seen too 
much. 

“Aneta!” The cry writhed from Alexei’s lips as though 
giant hands twisted every muscle in his sensitive body. 

She gave no sign that she heard but her hand slipped from 
the knob. She would have fallen had he not caught her as she 
lurched forward. “Anna,” he repeated, “what is it? What 
is the matter? Tell me.” He lifted her closely to him and 
bent his head as though to kiss her. 

She moved her head away from him. Her eyes searched 
the gloom beyond the curve of his shoulder. Her voice had 
in it the plaintive note of a tired child. “You would not 


326 WINE OF FURY 

want to kiss me,” she said slowly. “You wouldn’t even want 
to hold me.” She shook her head sadly. 

“Who did this, Anna?” he demanded fiercely, holding her 
by the shoulders and searching in her vacant eyes. His fingers 
lifted the torn shoulder of her dress. 

“Oh, that,” she answered. “They did. The three soldiers.” 

A groan escaped his lips and involuntarily he shrank at 
the horror of the realisation. 

“You see,” she said in the same plaintive tone, “I knew 
you wouldn’t.” 

“Anna,” he exclaimed, recovering and holding her tight 
again, “don’t speak so. It wasn’t that. I couldn’t help it.” 

“I know,” she continued. “It would be like that—always.” 
A new thought came to her and she gave it wistful expression: 
“I called you, Alosha. Why didn’t you come?” 

“As quickly as I could, I did, Anna,” he hastened to ex¬ 
plain. There were tears in his eyes and his voice wavered as 
the words tumbled forth. “I knew you called. I heard. 
On the Moscow train. I raced all the way home. I couldn’t 
stay there. The Reds had been there, do you hear, Aneta? 
My mother and my father—both—gone—for—always. I ran 
to your house. They told me about the soldiers coming for 
you. I ran all the way here.” 

“Father and mother both,” she repeated. “Poor Alosha. 
Everyone seems to be dying now. I am going to die, Alosha.” 

“No, Anna,” he cried in agony. “You must not say such 

things. You must live.” 

“Why?” she demanded peremptorily. “I am dead now— 
I only walk about—I am dead now—here.” She placed her 
hand over her heart and continued speaking in a slow acrid 
voice as though every drop of emotion had been absorbed by 
the heat of the passion to which she had been exposed. “It 
only moves—I want to stop that. I am going to stop it.” 

She paused. With a quick movement she disclosed the hand 

which she had held concealed behind her. “See?” she 
queried. It held a heavy army revolver. “One of them left 
it.” 


FURY 327 

He stared as though fascinated by the cold blue steel. 
While he spoke his eyes clung to it. The words seemed to be 
drawn from him. “If you do, Aneta, there will be nothing 
else left for me.” 

Moments passed in silence. Then she looked up from the 
weapon in her small white hand to his pale face. “I am 
sorry,” she said in the same dry voice. “You’ll forgive me, 
Alosha?” 

Tears streamed from his eyes. “Ah, God forgive us both,” 
he replied. “I shall do it with you.” 

“That will be good, Alosha,” she said, with an echo of her 
old vivacity in her voice. “We shall always be together then. 
No one shall ever come between us. You promise?” 

“I promise,” he said huskily. 

“It is easy, Alosha,” she said in a dull, dry, matter-of-fact 
tone. “I will show you.” 

She slid her free arm about his shoulder and held herself 
on tiptoe. “Kiss me, please, Alosha?” she queried, as though 
doubting that he would. 

He held her in a convulsive embrace and his lips seemed to 
hover over her face, touching her hair, her cheeks, her throat, 
her neck. 

A muffled crash stiffened him with terror. He felt the 
tense figure in his arms driven closer as though struck by a 
club; felt it relax with the spasmodic quiver of a taut cord 
that it severed. Pain crossed the beloved face like the ripple 
of a breeze on still water. His frantic hand sought to hold 
up the head which sank to his chest. The inert weight in his 
arms pulled him down. 

He found himself on his knees beside her white face. His 
hysterical gaze rested upon the revolver. He raised it in his 
hand slowly and carefully, and stared at it outstretched be¬ 
fore him, for a hesitant moment. His hand trembled involun¬ 
tarily. His chin quivered despite the effort at control re¬ 
vealed in the distended muscles of his throat and neck. 

A tortured shriek as from a soul writhing in hell burst from 
his twisted lips. He flung the weapon hurtling up into the 


328 WINE OF FURY 

tiers of seats, where it fell with a clatter. Stumbling to his 
feet, he ran from the room. 


XV 

“May the Lord bless you now and throughout the ages-” 

Out of the confusion which the early part of the wedding 
had been to Foma, these words spoken by the village priest 
soared with clarity and sweetness; and the pulsating intona¬ 
tions of the choir from its place behind the altar seemed to him 
a heavenly accompaniment of a blessing invisibly but never¬ 
theless certainly bestowed. His heart swelled. 

He ventured a sidelong glance at Masha. She stood with 
slightly bended head as though the unseen fingers giving the 
blessing were still touching her hair. From her profile she 
was calm, even serene, and the slender candle in her plump 
hand betrayed no sign of agitation. His own did tremble, 
and the wax from it dropped on his knuckles with a pleasant 
sensation—like the warm touch of Masha’s fingers. 

The tiny village church had taken on un unaccustomed 
brightness. It had actually been swept! Its woodwork 
gleamed, its ikons sparkled in the light of fresh candles and 
the gold-and-silver embroidered trappings of the altar glis¬ 
tened with a richness which belied their tinsel. 

It seemed as though all the village crowded inside. Surely 
all the women—there were not so many men now. The 
audience filled the regular places and crowded in the aisles. 
In front were the relatives of the happy couple. Masha’s fa¬ 
ther and mother, beaming because their daughter and only 
child had made a match with one who for three years now had 
been the village hero. Foma’s father, unable to see clearly 
what transpired, but hearing well enough, proud of his 
youngest son, and exulting in the fact that now the village must 
be retracting its harsh words about his vodka-drinking and 
his chatter. And his sister, staring unseeingly at the bride, 
so that one or two who noticed understood that her dry eyes 



329 


FURY 

saw herself in Masha’s place with a village son who had never 
returned from the war. His mother, in accordance with the 
peasant custom, was not there to see her son pledge his love 
to another woman, despite the fact that she had long since 
treated Masha as a daughter. 

Although cold with a bone-piercing dampness outside, the 
density of the crowd and the successful efforts of the care¬ 
taker of the church with the fire in the tall corner-stove pro¬ 
duced a decidedly uncomfortable warmth within. 

It was the first wedding in the village since the Revolution. 
From the moment the news spread that Foma Ivanovitch and 
Masha Nikolaievna were returning to the village from Petro- 
grad to be married and to live, the people had lived in a state 
of expectation without precedent in the last few years. Despite 
the fact that the village had long ago become used to its sol¬ 
diers returning from the war and inured to their non-return, 
quite a crowd awaited Foma when his sledge had jogged down 
the one street. He had greeted friends on every side with 
shouts, handclaspings and cub-like raps on the shoulder, and 
his family with bone-crushing hugs and smacking kisses. His 
medals had been exhibited, his rifle fought over by the small 
boys, and eventually, in the course of the piecemeal relation 
of his experiences which the audiences of many evenings 
gathered about the samovar managed to elicit, he had been com¬ 
pelled to strip his tunic and shirt and show where the envious 
bullet had bitten into the firm muscle of his broad chest. 
When he produced roubles enough to purchase one of the 
village’s empty dwellings, repair it, and even supply it with 
the necessities of furniture picked up here and there, the. 
wonder at his prowess and good fortune knew no bounds, and 
the wedding was anticipated as the crowning event of a suc¬ 
cessful career. 

There had been considerable excitement when the wedding 
party entered the church. The spectators, especially the 
women, leaned this way and that in order to see clearly 
which one of the happy couple should be the first to step 
on the strip of red carpet placed before the altar and, as 


330 WINE OF FURY 

tradition had it, thereby forecast his or her dominance in the 
new household. Masha’s foot had touched it first, thanks to 
the daze in which Foma seemed to be moving throughout the 
ceremony. Smiles and comment among the women-folk 
greeted this prophetic action, and many were the remarks 
aimed at the men, who felt themselves let down by Foma’s 
backwardness. Much of the good-natured banter took the form 
of proverbs, which were whispered back and forth: 

“ ‘The wife, without beating her husband, rules him with 
her temper.’ ” 

“ ‘Love your wife like your soul, and shake her like a 
pear-tree.’ ” 

“ ‘There is only one wicked woman in the world, but every 
man thinks she is his wife.’ ” 

“ ‘Having a good wife and rich cabbage soup, other things 
seek not.’ ” 

“ ‘If you go to war pray, if you go on a sea journey pray 
twice, but pray three times when you are going to be mar¬ 
ried.’ ” 

When the prayers were repeated, many noticed that the 
priest coughed and stumbled over that for the Emperor. “Why 
didn’t he leave that out?” whispered one man to another. 
“There’s no Emperor now.” 

“It’s so long since he said the marriage prayers that he 
didn’t think of it,” was the reply. “Anyway, it sounds better 
with it in.” 

“Isn’t Marya Nikolaievna’s dress beautiful?” a woman 
whispered to a friend beside her. “It’s so white and shiny; 
it must be silk. It must have cost fifty roubles.” 

“Fifty roubles!” came the whispered exclamation. “Indeed! 
Didn’t you hear? Marya Nikolaievna worked in the house 
of a Princess in Petrograd. Before the Princess went away 
she gave Masha one of her dresses and some money—a lot of 
money-” 

“Not the Princess,” interrupted the woman in front, turn¬ 
ing her head to whisper. “Marya Nikolaievna told me that 
the Princess wouldn’t give anything away. It was the elder 


FURY 331 

daughter who gave her the dress and money. Dukharin’s the 
name. And Marya Nikolaievna fixed the dress up herself.” 

“Sh-h-h!” came from somewhere behind, and silence again 
filled the church. 

The deep bass of the priest’s voice seemed like music as 
he twisted a tiny ring upon Foma’s finger: “I unite thee, 
Foma, servant of God, to Marya, servant of God.” 

“Nothing can keep us apart now,” thought Foma as he 
watched his ring placed upon Masha’s extended finger and 
heard again the voice of the priest: “I unite thee, Marya, 
servant of God, to Foma, servant of God.” He felt someone 
fumbling at his hand, and looking down out of the realisation 
of his simple dreams he saw that it was Masha giving him his 
ring. She slipped it on his finger, and mechanically he with¬ 
drew her little one from his stubby finger and put it on her 
own. A fan of wrinkles broke out at the corners of the old 
priest’s eyes at Foma’s clumsiness and a kindly smile curved 
the full mouth set within his silken beard. 

Foma might have been confused even more had not Masha 
looked up at him. His troubled gaze met her glance squarely 
and in the hazel depth of her eyes he read plainly: “That’s 
right, it is nearly over now.” His confusion became less acute 
as his thoughts dwelt upon the faithful one at his side. “How 
beautiful she is!” he thought. What would some of the sol¬ 
diers in Petrograd who had chaffed him about Masha’s wide 
waist and impassive face say now if they could see the glis¬ 
tening white silk, the head-dress and the clear waxen shine of 
her countenance? 

Petrograd and the soldiers! The recollection of all that 
he had experienced since the day of his departure from the 
village came to him slowly, like a confused picture-puzzle be¬ 
ing arranged by a child’s hand. The ache of the farewells 
to his family and friends. The excitement of the short train¬ 
ing period. The long journey to the front. The first attack 
and the spiteful blow the bullet had dealt him in the chest. 
The pain of his first days in the hospital. His return to Petro¬ 
grad and the formation of the new armies. The blow Marinoff 


332 WINE OF FURY 

had struck him in the face. The beating with the whip. The 
vague memory as of a dream of that terrible night when, he 
had been told, he had killed Marinoff. Ah, it was no time 
to think of that! The front again and again the attack. The 
smash-up of the world as that shell exploded so near him. 
The awful minutes when he had thought himself blind. Petro- 
grad again and Masha—his experience with the Cheka—and 
this. He glanced at her again. “Ah, yes,” he thought, sigh¬ 
ing so audibly that she looked up at him again, “it is worth 
it all.” He saw that she was watching the priest closely. He 
did likewise, aware of little that was done. Detached passages 
of prayers stole into his consciousness, the rustle of Masha’s 
dress as they moved about the altar—it was all as in a dream. 
Even the titter which had passed over the church like a breeze 
when his little cousin, Kostia, remarked audibly: “Ah, 
mamma, look at Foma Ivanovitch sweat!”—of even this he 
was unaware. Consequently he fumbled nervously at the wide 
belt which encircled his new tunic so tightly, and ingenuous 
wonder opened his eyes when he felt the priest take the half- 
burnt and flickering candle from his hand and say in a fa¬ 
therly tone: “Now, Foma Ivanovitch, kiss your wife.” It 
was over. He and Masha were now inseparable! He kissed 
her with a surge of emotion, which, before the staring crowd, 
embarrassed him the more, and with her on his arm he hurried 
from the church. 

Most of the people followed them through the snow to 
their new home to offer congratulations and to partake of 
the simple refreshments. Here, in the laughing and the shar¬ 
ing in the tea and black bread sandwiches with jam, Foma re¬ 
gained some of his normal composure, and before the eve¬ 
ning came to an end he had shown the house to all with a pro¬ 
prietary air. 

Finally, after much singing and joking which the young 
joined in anticipation and the old in retrospection, the guests 
began to depart in groups of two and three to leave the happy 
couple to themselves. 

One of the last to go remarked to Foma: “Yes, Foma 


FURY 333 

Ivanovitch, you are well fixed here, a pretty wife, a home and 
some fine land—and you deserve it. All will be well with 
you unless the Bolsheviks send Red Guards from Petrograd to 
take over a share of your grain, as I have heard they plan 
to do.” 

“Uh-huh,” commented Foma as he closed the door with an 
air of preoccupation mingled with refusal to believe anything 
so fraught with trouble on the part of those who owed him as 
a peasant soldier so much. 


XVI 

David and Natalie had been fortunate. Attached to the 
freight train which pulled out at midnight for the far-north 
port of Murmansk was an empty sleeping-car destined for the 
use of some port authority and his staff. One hundred roubles 
to the guard sufficed to secure their admission. With the entire 
car and its numerous compartments to themselves—despite the 
fact that it contained neither heat nor light—they were able 
to approach comfort on the long, laborious journey. 

Day after day they rumbled northward; days of intense 
cold, of four hours of light and twenty of darkness, and of 
apprehension of what awaited them at every stop. For scenery 
there was nothing but the endless, impassive waste of snow 
and ice relieved now and then by a scraggle of bushes and 
blasted spruce-trees. At long intervals they passed tiny 
villages of rude log shacks and mud huts where prisoners of 
war lived more like animals than men, imprisoned by the vast 
emptiness around them. And at still longer intervals they 
stopped for hours at a low station before some half-buried 
town where the train was an object of considerable interest 
and where they were able to add to their meagre supplies such 
comforts as candles, buckets of water, and a delicacy of cooked 
food. On these occasions, also, they talked with the loiterers 
about the station, who gave them the natural sympathy and 
assistance of people as yet unconverted to the extremist teach- 


334 WINE OF FURY 

ings. From such cases of friendship it was with reluctance 

that they took up again the cold iron trail northward. 

Throughout all these days were the same grey clouds hur¬ 
rying nowhere out of nowhere, or hanging like a heavy pall 
over the stiff white corpse of the world. And always sifting 
upon it a measured sowing of hard snow, which on the days 
of wind blew in gusts, drifted and seemed to smoke from the 
occasional hermit spruce, and on those of calm sank through 
the haze with relentless insistence. 

Despite the hardships, David was happy. The days were 
an assuring prophecy of what his life with Natalie would be. 
He passed over the inconvenience which attended their travel 
like a boy on a camping trip. And the apparent ease with 
which she surmounted the difficulties encountered confirmed her 
in his thoughts as the one definite and real thing in the con¬ 
fusion about him. 

He helped her with the work of keeping the car clean and 
of preparing their food; did it clumsily but with enthusiasm, 
which was now and then tempered by the thought of how help¬ 
less and miserable he would have been without her. Some¬ 
times in the course of these small tasks he would stop and, 
thinking of his complicated life of former days, would 
wonder at the circumstances which had brought him to happi¬ 
ness in this simple struggle for existence with the woman he 
loved. 

As the days rolled by, the burden of his failure slipped 
from him. He trusted the new course upon which he had 
embarked. He was sure of himself again. 

At first Natalie had puzzled him. Her love for him was 
undoubted. Her evident happiness in their simple life 
matched his own. She even wished the time could be longer. 
But in odd moments when, in silence, he sat across from her, 
presumably staring at the white waste outside, but in real¬ 
ity indulging in the pleasure of contemplating life with her, 
he saw the calm of her features overshadow with sadness. 
These moments worried him until he reflected that in leaving 
Petrograd, however difficult life there had become, she was 


FURY 335 

leaving home, friends and all the fair associations of youth. 
He thought of her home and of the pleasant evenings he had 
spent in it. It was empty now ... the General, Radkin, 
Anna, Alexei, the Princess, himself—all were scattered by the 
careless winds of circumstance. They would never meet again. 
Perhaps the house would, like that of the Countess, be looted 
of its treasures, its atmosphere desecrated. His head moved 
with involuntary protest. And he was careful not to break 
into her moods suddenly, but to share pleasant recollections 
with her and gradually lead her from the sadness which hov* 
ered near them. 

On one of these occasions he remembered with a shock 
that he had not told her of Anna’s being brought to the 
Cheka building. “In the excitement, I forgot it,” he said 
with regret. “We might have searched the place for her, 
but I’m quite sure they took her back home.” 

“She’ll be all right. She’s a brave little thing,” Natalie 
had answered. “Alexei Nikolaievitch wrote her from Moscow. 
He was to arrive in Petrograd that evening and take her out 
to the Princess at the Countess Borovskaya’s villa. They were 
going to London from there through Finland.” 

“We’ll look them up in London,” he assured. 

The sun shone for twenty minutes in honour of their arrival 
at Murmansk. It spilled liquid gilt on the bare white hills 
across the harbour and glinted in the gun-metal waters, which 
—thanks to a favourable curve of the Gulf Stream and in spite 
of their position some three hundred miles north of the Arctic 
circle—were never frozen. 

There was little in the appearance of the town to account 
for David’s joy at their arrival. It’s low, hewn-log buildings 
sprawled down the hill-side to the water’s edge where skirted 
the tracks with spurs branching out to the hastily constructed 
piers. These were cluttered with machinery, most of it as yet 
unassembled—cranes, locomotives, donkey-engines, even small 
submarines, all rusting from disuse. At the docks lay Russian 
torpedo boats abandoned by their crews. Out in the harbour 
lay Britain’s symbol of power—an old but stubborn-looking 


336 WINE OF FURY 

battleship, her four “twelves” commanding the plains for 
miles around and lending authority to the Union Jack which 
fluttered from the log Consulate on the hill above the town. 

When their dwelling on wheels had been backed on to 
a siding and the engine had trundled away with its string 
of freight-cars, David hurried up to the hill to make himself 
known. 

An hour passed before he returned to their car, his face 
radiant. “Besides the regular population of Mongols and 
Laplanders there are a few real people here,” he announced. 
“Russians and British, as usual. There is a small supply ship 
which brings stuff from England. It’s expected to sail for 
Newcastle soon. I’ve been introduced to the captain. It is 
arranged that we go on the next trip. They’re not certain 
when, because they have to pick a time when the wireless 
reports the most favourable opportunity to avoid submarines. 
They usually pull out in a hurry, but the captain says he’ll 
send us a full half-hour’s warning to get aboard. We stay 
here until it comes. To-morrow I’ll be able to get some decent 
food from the supply ship and the wait won’t be so bad. We’re 
in luck, aren’t we?” He took her hands and watched the play 
of light in her dark eyes. “This isn’t supposed to be much of a 
place,” he continued, “but I can see paradise from here.” 

One, two, three days passed. The darkness they spent in 
their car reading the tattered newspapers and magazines 
loaned them by the officers stationed at the port. During the 
few hours of light they walked towards the surrounding hills 
or drove in the valleys on reindeer sledges hired from the 
Laplanders. 

About them the elements held sway. From the bay the 
bare tundra undulated in mile after mile of wind-swept waste, 
broken only here and there by a scraggle of spruce-trees about 
whose branches, bent and twisted by years of storm, the crystal 
snow swirled like smoke. Afar off the black line of a forest 
marked the beginning of the hills. Hunched, sullen, resentful 
and stripped of foliage they lay on the horizon like naked 
giants chained to earth and eternal exposure to the elements. 


FURY 337 

Half hiding them were the low clouds which writhed and 
rolled in the high wind, racing across the sky with only the 
occasional grey of another and higher layer for relief. And 
from these came a steady fall of hard icy particles which 
were caught in the mad clutch of the blast and tossed with 
stinging derision over the barren white world. 

Sometimes at night the northern lights played their part 
in the vast drama of the elements. The clouds, which might 
have been thought doomed to hover over the cold world for 
eternity, mysteriously vanished; and from low in the black 
heavens set with cut-steel stars the lights streamed upward 
like the phosphorescent breath of unseen monsters crouching 
over the horizon’s rim—now hanging in festoons like ghostly 
draperies, now fluttering and twisting in a fantastic dance of 
suffering. 

One evening when they sat together in the candle-light 
of the compartment which they had christened “The Library” a 
loud knocking sounded at the forward end of the car. David, 
investigating it, found a seaman from the supply ship stand¬ 
ing in the corridor. “Mr. Rand, sir. Captain Clarke’s com¬ 
pliments, sir, and ’e asks, sir, that you and the laidy be on 
board in twenty minutes, sir. I’ll wite for the luggage, sir.” 

David hurried back to the compartment. “We’re off!” he 
exclaimed as Natalie rose to meet him. “In twenty minutes. 
Come on, let’s get our few worldly possessions together.” He 
began throwing his things into the hand-bag—all he had saved 
of his Petrograd establishment. She did likewise with her own. 

“Let’s get this man away with the bags as soon as we can,” 
he said as he fumbled with the clasps. 

No reply came from her. Something in the silence made 
him turn. She stood upright looking at him wide-eyed, the 
light of the candle playing on her face. He saw that she 
was suffering. A terrible premonition swept over him. 
“Natalie!” he exclaimed, “what is it?” 

For a moment she seemed inarticulate. Then slowly the 
words came: “I cannot go with you, David. 

Each word, as she enunciated it clearly, struck upon his 


338 WINE OF FURY 

senses with crushing, sickening force. The smile of surprise at 
what he first thought might be an ill-considered joke stiffened 
on his face as he saw the truth in her eyes. 

The steadfastness of her gaze reiterated it. It was too much. 
He sank weakly into the seat opposite. 

Her voice was dry and hopeless. “I saw that some time 
you would go. I tried to keep you. I told Mr. Radkin that 
you would be the best man for the Relief Bureau. I hoped that 
you would think about it less and feel about it more. I’m 
not blaming you. Only, I do not understand. When you told 
me you were going, I saw happiness being taken from me. 
I wanted, just a little, so much. I didn’t resist when you 
swept me along with you. It was weakness . . . but it 
has been . . .” She turned her hands slowly outward at her 
sides in a gesture for the word, rich enough in meaning, which 
she could not find. 

Life returned to his face as she spoke. He rose to his 
feet and held her arms so that he might look steadily into 
her eyes: “You are going back?” 

“Yes,” she said, bowing her head as though at the prospect 
of it. 

“No, Natalie, no!” he exclaimed in agonised protest. “You 
can’t ... we can’t be separated now ... we shall be so 
happy . . . no, you must come with me. You must . . .” 

Abysmal despair trembled in her voice. “Don’t . . . David 
. . . don’t,” she begged, as though he tempted her to the point 
of torture. “They depend upon me.” 

He faltered before her words. Moments passed. “Yes,” 
he breathed, “I know.” He gazed at her—desperate—baffled. 

A new thought showed in his face like light dispelling 
shadow. A surge of strength made his hands upon her shoul¬ 
ders tremble. “This is not the end,” he cried. “I shall come 
back for you. Remember that. Some day when we shall 
have done enough, I shall come. You will wait for me?” 

She raised her tear-stained face and whispered her reply: 
“For ever.” 

His triumphant embrace sealed the vow. He held her 


FURY 339 

close, tightly, as though resisting forces which would tear 
them apart with the planless finality of the universe. 

The flame from the stump of candle flared without a tremor 
to a perfect point. Both were aware of it and both thought 
of their first meeting in the cathedral’s light of a thousand 
candles. The lozenge-like watch on her wrist about his shoul¬ 
der clattered on inexorably with its warning of the march 
of other actions which were converging to limit theirs. Both 
were aware of it and both would rather each reckless tick had 
been a year of life at another time than this. 

Came an insistent knocking at the car entrance, followed by 
the thick voice of the seaman: “Beg pardon, sir, but time’s 
almost up, sir, if you wish to make the ship, sir. Any luggage, 
sir?” 

It was over. David rushed out to the man with his hand¬ 
bag and sent him off to tell the captain that the lady was not 
going. Returning to the compartment, he found Natalie 
standing where he had left her, staring at the yellow point 
of candle-light. He kissed her, drew her from the room, and 
guided her down the dark corridor and out of the car. 

As they stumbled and slid their way to the docks a chill 
as from the frozen air possessed his soul. The dismal clutter 
and decay of the railroad yard and water-front, long settled 
into disuse, sank through the daze of his senses. How like the 
city they had left! He shuddered at the thought of her return 
to it. 

At the docks reigned the order under confusion of depar¬ 
ture. The tug, with its line fast, coughed impatiently; the 
last dock-lines were loosened, ready to be slipped, and under 
the sputtering arc-light David saw that the narrow gang-plank 
was raised slightly from the pier. 

With two seamen standing by to haul it on board, with 
the hustle of the dock-hands, and with the shouting of orders, 
there was little time for farewells. Words failed them. Shouts 
from the steamer cut short their last embrace. 

He stood at the rail. She did not move from the white 
circle of the arc-light. As the ship moved out into the har- 


340 WINEOFFURY 

bour, their eyes met to the last across the ever-widening interval 
of dark water. Long after he had become invisible to her, 
he saw her standing in the light, her long cape blowing in the 
wind. At the bend in the channel where the point thrust out 
its rugged fist to shut off* vision, he saw the straight figure 
droop as it turned back wearily to vanish in the waiting dark¬ 
ness. 

The steamer glided down the narrow harbour between the 
hills, which rose like jagged white walls. The lights on the 
headlands twinkled into view; the raw sea wind with salt 
in it hummed in the rigging. A tiny boat struggled under 
the bow; the pilot clambered over the side, and, this last 
connection with land severed, the ship nodded its approval and 
rounded the headlands into the black, open sea. 

As long as there was land in sight, David stood at the rail, 
peering through the darkness. The bitter wind filled his eyes 
with mist and in it he saw again the city of his labour, failure 
and love; saw its wide thoroughfares piled high with dirty 
snow and ice, its low fading buildings splotched with decay and 
strife, its mighty river sullen in submission to the dominant 
cold, and its empty churches reaching their domes and spires 
in glittering, futile gestures into the brooding haze. Stilled 
was the anvil chorus of its industries, the obligato to its van¬ 
ished pleasures, the arpeggios of its bells. But not yet 
stilled its failing pulse of life, for in the shadows his searching 
eyes still saw one face; saw its red lips form two words, “For 
ever”; saw it turn again to the dark, surrounding ambush of 
the streets where moaned the ghastly miserere of men drunk 
deep of the wine of fury and self-abandoned to destruction of 
their fellow-men. 


THE end 































































































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